


Like a Train Wreck

by magicbubblepipe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Rape Recovery, Therapy, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brutal assault by Moriarty lands Sherlock in therapy where repressed childhood memories are dragged out into the open. -Takes place during and after the unaired pilot, rated for non-con and eventual Sherlock/John-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovering

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net and got a lot of positive reviews so I thought it should be my first addition to my new AO3 account :)

" _I could do anything I want to you right now, Mr. Holmes. Anything at all."_

…

It was not part of the plan, John could just tell. He watched with a clenched stomach as Sherlock stumbled and flailed miserably, reaching out, reaching towards John before the cabbie shoved him into the backseat. He was out of his chair before Angelo could protest any further, leaving his cane behind and dashing out the door.

…

The voice was around him, everywhere. It was blurry and confusing, bizarrely soft. Sherlock opened his eyes to find the world around him as dim and out of focus as the voice, the voice that was still speaking to him, with something like mock affection. He tried to speak but knew his mouth wasn't moving correctly, knew that his voice was slurred. The voice, the man's voice, chuckled and there was suddenly a hand in his hair as if it the person meant to soothe him.

But then it turned rough, the hand fisting in his hair and yanking his head back and he was forced to look into a pair of dark, cold eyes. The voice was still talking and he could pick up a slight Irish accent, Dublin, wasn't it? The rest of the man's face slipped in and out of focus. Short dark hair, dark eyes, and very normal, almost generic; the kind of man one would struggle to describe to the police; the kind of man who could easily disappear into the crowd. He wore a suit, expensive and freshly pressed and his words were slowly starting to make sense.

"I don't appreciate you interfering with my clients, Sherlock," the man said with an odd blank smile on his face, "Perhaps this evening will serve as a warning for you."

"Who're you?" Sherlock slurred, trying to turn his head but the man's grip on his hair was vice-like.

"Sherlock, you disappoint me," he replied with a frown, "Surely the world's only consulting detective can appreciate a good mystery."

The hand left his hair and Sherlock's head dropped onto his arm, feeling as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He realized he was face down on the floor, hard floor like wood. He brought his knees up under himself, attempting to stand but all he could do was hover there, leaning on his elbows and groaning at the exertion.

He could feel the man's appreciative stare behind him before there were hands on his hips. Sherlock froze. This was not right, this was very not right. The hands moved lower, groping his backside and slipping around to the front where they squeezed with no mercy. He cried out, squirming and attempting to crawl away. The man effortlessly yanked him back to his previous position and he could feel his weight over him, pressing against him as he made short work of Sherlock's belt.

"John…" Sherlock moaned despairingly, although he knew it would do no good, "John, help me…"

…

John hadn't stopped pacing since he was forced back to the flat. Lestrade was there to keep him company and make sure he stayed put. The inspector watched him as he went back and forth, worrying a hole in the floor. His phone sat on his thigh, ready to be answered if the team should find a lead.

John stopped, rubbing a hand over his face, pressing into his eyes wearily. "How can they not have found him yet?" he demanded, staring hard at Lestrade, "Is the police force so utterly lost without Sherlock's help?"

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon, Dr. Watson," he said for the hundredth time that evening. The questioning had gone on and on like this for hours and he was beginning to feel like a broken record.

The only news they had had so far was that the cabbie had been apprehended and taken down to the yard but Sherlock was not to be found. When submitted to immediate questioning, the cabbie refused to give out any information, nor the name of his said "employer". John had been ready to go down there and beat the man into submission but Lestrade had assured him that Sherlock always turned up safe and sound. Granted, this was the longest he had ever been missing.

The two men nearly jumped out of their skin when they heard the doorbell chime. John thundered down the stairs, Lestrade following close behind. Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her flat as John threw open the door. He looked around but there was no one there and not a soul on the road. Just when he was about to give it up to pranksters, he heard a gasp from his landlady and looked down. His heart dropped into his stomach. There lay Sherlock on the front stoop, bundled in a dark blanket and obviously unconscious.

"Sherlock!" he cried, dropping to his knees and pressing his fingers to the side of his throat…still alive. Premature relief washed over him before he saw the note that was pinned to the front of the blanket:

" _Thanks for the use of your boyfriend, Johnny Boy._

_-M."_

John's mind whorled around the words and what they could possibly mean. Lestrade was there in a flash, grabbing Sherlock by the legs while John lifted the top half of his body, pressing his chest against his head so it wouldn't loll. Mrs. Hudson was flitting around them like a nervous bird, saying that they could use her sitting room instead of carrying Sherlock all the way up the stairs.

They cautiously laid the detective on the couch and Mrs. Hudson bustled off, muttering something about hot tea. John and Lestrade both stood, looking down at Sherlock as if they didn't know what to do next. With a glance up at the inspector, John grabbed the edge of the blanket and gently pulled. They both gasped in horror, taking a step back from the brutalized body before them.

Sherlock was naked, his neck was bruised and bitten, the little crescent shaped marks caked with blood. On either side of his chest were four long shallow tracks of blood; inarguably, fingernails. John blinked rapidly, keeping the sudden and unwelcome prickling of tears at bay; this was starting to look more and more like…dare he think it…rape. With a shaky exhale of breath, he uncovered him the rest of the way.

He almost had to turn in the other direction, his heart pounding and his throat thick. He had seen the casualties of war, seen friends bleed out before him when there was nothing he could do…but this,  _this_. This was almost more than he could bear. Marks, just starting to bruise in the shape of fingers on his hips and there was  _blood_. So much of it, covering his thighs and staining the blanket.

"Christ," Lestrade managed after a moment of silence, tugging the blanket back over him and leaving the room to call for an ambulance.

John staggered back, falling into one of Mrs. Hudson's arm chairs, a hand over his mouth and feeling like he was about to be sick. The owner of the chair walked back into the room, balancing an eiderdown and a teapot.

"Don't come in here, Mrs. Hudson," John warned, "Go back to the kitchen until the ambulance comes."

"Ambulance?" she repeated worriedly, "What's happened to Sherlock? Is it serious?"

"More serious than I ever imagined…" John replied, just above a whisper, his eyes trained on the still body before him.

The landlady stood there, debating, and finally returned to the kitchen. John sat, propping his head in his hand and wondered why he cared so much. He was certain that this wasn't the normal doctor/patient feelings to have and he had only known the man for a day and a half. So why, why did it feel like someone had punched him in the chest with a red hot fist?

His thoughts were interrupted by the whooping alarm of an ambulance and a couple of cop cars. Lestrade responded first to the banging on the front door, leading the paramedics into the sitting room. They quickly grabbed Sherlock, hauling him onto a stretcher with as much care as would be required with a sack of potatoes.

"Gently, would you, for fuck's sake!" John heard himself exclaim. They looked at him in surprise before quietly apologizing and carrying him out to the ambulance.

John was right behind them and climbed in next to Sherlock once they had him situated. Just before the doors shut, he caught a glimpse of a tall man, climbing out of a posh black car, his brows creased with concern. He stood, anxiously twirling a black umbrella when he locked eyes with John. The man's gaze was calculating and skeptical, a slight, humorless smile curving his thin lips. Something about the way the man seemed to see directly through him reminded him of Sherlock and he wondered vaguely why he was there. A family member perhaps? The doors slammed shut and the whirring of the siren drowned out John's thoughts.


	2. Screaming

Sherlock opened his eyes on the way to the hospital. He blinked dazedly up at John and then at the surrounding paramedics who proceeded to tell him to relax and that they would be stopping shortly. They all looked at him pityingly and spoke in low voices as if not wanting to startle him; he did not like it.

"I don't want to go to the hospital!" he yelled, gaze flicking from the EMT to John, "I'm fine, I just want to go home!"

"Sherlock, you're not fine," John insisted quietly, "You're injured and I'm sure they'll want to run some tests…"

"No tests!"

The ambulance pulled to a stop and Sherlock's stretcher was unloaded from the back of it, John following right behind. The detective struggled against the straps across his chest, declaring that he was perfectly capable of walking and so they let him try. He groaned as he hauled himself up, clutching the blanket tightly around him. He noticed immediately the small sign over the nurse's station which read: SEXUAL ASSAULT CENTRE.

A sexual assault nurse examiner with blonde hair and a kind smile introduced herself and tried to take him back to a room but Sherlock would have none of it. "No, I'm fine and I'm leaving." He said bluntly and turned to leave but John stopped him, holding his shoulders firmly.

"Sherlock, I know this isn't the easiest thing to do but they really need to do those tests. Don't you want them to be able to catch the sick bastard that did this?"

He shrugged off John's restraining grip, pulling his blanket closer. "There's no point, don't you see? He won't be on any records! This is just wasting time!"

John looked imploringly at the nurse who said, "We will not perform any tests without the victim's express consent."

"There, you see? No tests." Sherlock relaxed somewhat before John said, "But you must let them fix you up."

Sherlock's jaw clenched, a brief wave of panic flickering across his eyes but John was immovable. Slowly, he nodded and allowed the nurse to take his arm, patting the back of his hand reassuringly.

John let out a breath, pressing his temples in a last ditch attempt to ward off a threatening headache. There was a clearing of a throat behind him and he turned to see the man from before, the man with the umbrella, standing there with that look of scrutiny on his face.

"Who are you?" John nearly barked, his nerves frayed.

"Mycroft Holmes. More importantly, who are you?"

"…Holmes…? What are you then, his brother?" A brief smile and a nod, "I'm John Watson." He held out a hand.

"I know your name, history, jam preferences, and all of the other useless facts. What I meant was: who are you to my brother?"

John blinked and took his hand back, feeling too astonished to be angry. "I…well…I don't know exactly. I mean, we just moved in together. Flatmates then, I suppose?"

The other man smiled thoughtfully, twirling his umbrella like one would tap their fingers. "You're interesting."

"Excuse me?  _I'm_  interesting?"

"Yes, the fact that you only just met Sherlock and are already playing the role of concerned lover, the way the intermittent tremor in your hand is still, even under such duress, and the way you've not even noticed that you left your cane at the restaurant…it is all quite interesting."

John's mouth moved wordlessly for a moment as he grappled for something to say. "Wait a minute, I'm not…we're not…I suppose it _is_ psychosomatic." He groaned and sat in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, his headache pounding away behind his eyes.

"Moriarty."

"What?"

"Moriarty is the man that did this to my brother."

"…How can you…how can you possibly know that and stand here calmly instead of hunting him down and murdering him?"

Mycroft smiled condescendingly, "Now is not the time to overwhelm oneself with emotions," he said the word like it was particularly offensive, "Don't get me wrong, I do care for my brother but it would not do to run off on a wild goose chase without any logic; without any facts or planning."

"I see the family resemblance," John muttered under his breath.

"Do take care of him, won't you?" Mycroft said suddenly, placing a hand on John's shoulder. "He's always been stubborn but he's not as strong as he thinks he is."

John simply nodded and Mycroft grinned approvingly, "I had a feeling you'd be good for him."

Before he could muster up a reply, the strange man turned and headed for the door, umbrella twirling.

…

Three stitches, a vaccination, and a bottle of painkillers later, Sherlock was released into John's care. He didn't say a word on the way home, his gaze fixed on the blurring cityscape outside his window. John was quiet, careful not to pressure him and Sherlock was silently grateful for that. Truth be told, the adrenaline had worn off and he was completely exhausted and sore.

The stairs were an obstacle to say the least but he didn't want John's help. He would grit his teeth and bear it because he was a man and fully capable of taking care of himself. He could feel John's concern burning into his back and refused to meet his eyes once they reached the top.

"Do you want anything?" John asked timidly, "Food? Tea?"

"No. I want to go to bed. Goodnight, John," he replied shortly before lugging himself to his room, where he fell face down onto the bed and directly asleep.

John stared after him and he could only imagine the terrible pain he must be in and how hard it must be to hide it. He wished there was something he could do to help; being a doctor, he had never felt so incredibly useless. He shuffled into the kitchen, fixing himself a cuppa, though he didn't truly feel up to it.

Settling into his chair, he flicked on the television and stared blankly at the moving pictures, sipping his tea on autopilot. He was just starting to relax when the screaming started.


	3. Bathing

Sherlock had curled in on himself tensely, his body shuddering and his eyes darting swiftly about under his eyelids. It was so familiar that John felt as though he could be watching himself, during another nightmare of Afghanistan. He would wake up sweating and shaking, alone in his bed with his heart pounding its way into his throat until he could no longer suppress the tears that had been threatening to fall.

It moved him forward and made him shake his flatmate's shoulder. He suddenly couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock screaming himself awake to emptiness, no other sounds but his own harsh breathing and the steady pat of the rain against the window. He didn't have to be alone. John was there.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up. It's John, you're safe. You're home!" Sherlock woke with a start, his arm automatically lashing out towards John and he felt the crushing impact of a fist into his jaw.

He groaned as he picked himself up off the floor, rubbing gingerly at his face. Sherlock sat there, looking terrified and bewildered, his eyes wide and his brow slick with sweat. "Don't touch me…don't touch me…" he whispered like a mantra as he slowly came into awareness, "…John. John, is that you?"

"Yes, yes it's me." He stood beside the bed, fidgeting and not knowing if he should sit down or leave.

A combination of relief and embarrassment crept over Sherlock's face in the light from the open door but it soon vanished as if he had wiped it clean. Blank. "Thank you for checking on me," he said in a quiet monotone, "I'm fine now, obviously. Dreams can't hurt you."

"Not physically, no…"

The muscles of Sherlock's jaw clenched and he lowered his eyes from John's, "I'm fine. Go back to your tea."

"…How did you…never mind. Goodnight." He rose his hand in a parting gesture and left, closing the door gently behind him.

…

When John was awakened, it was 4:06 in the morning. The steady hiss of the shower had finally roused him from dark, twisting dreams and he lay there, listening. The shower continued for half an hour and he started to feel concerned.

First off, it was an ungodly hour for bathing and secondly, it wouldn't be good for Sherlock's wounds to be exposed for so long. He lay fidgeting for another ten minutes, wondering if he was alright but felt it would be a major intrusion to go and knock on the bathroom door. After all, he had undergone a traumatic experience in which he had been invaded in the worst of ways and it would not be conducive to interrupt his privacy.

Then again, his doctor's instincts continued to worry about the stitches and bandages getting saturated in the hot water. He waffled back and forth for a long while until the shower suddenly stopped. He waited, listening for the bathroom door.

…

Sherlock woke with a start from the nightmare, trembling in the dark silence of the room. He had the childish feeling that shadows were creeping in on him from every angle. Snapping his eyes shut, he waited for sleep to return. It did not. Every time he felt himself start to drift, he could feel hands on him, everywhere, and the ghost of hot breath on the back of his neck.

He felt dirty, used, like sweat still clung to his skin. He knew in the back of his mind that this was completely illogical but he was overwhelmed with the desperate need to be clean. He carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed, every movement like fire and sandpaper. It took him ten minutes to make it out the door and into the hall. He opened the bathroom door slowly so the hinges wouldn't creak and edged inside.

The two and a half foot step it would take to get in the tub loomed ahead of him like an impossible task. Slowly, he stripped himself of the clothes that Mycroft had surreptitiously delivered to him at the hospital, and then his pants. He felt a faint flicker of relief when he discovered no blood on them; his stitches were still intact.

Lifting a leg, he placed his foot on the edge of the tub. He let out a breath and gritted his teeth as he placed it inside the tub. He burned and he ached so he did the other leg faster, like ripping off a bandage. Big mistake. Huge. His vision blacked and he felt himself sway, his arms reaching out to hold himself on the wall. He pressed his face against the cool tile, waiting for his head and his stomach to catch up with the rest of him.

When he felt steady, he turned on the faucet, twisting the knob until the water was as hot as it could be. It ran over his fingers, hot,  _sterile_. He pulled the shower plug and the burning, blessed heat was all over him. He stood still under the stream until he was soaked, his hair hanging down about his face, drenched and curly before grabbing the soap. He passed it over his skin, expecting to feel clean, but he did not.

He could still feel fingers on him; the sweat. He scrubbed harder, everywhere. He ripped off the plaster that covered the bite mark and rubbed vigorously, pain stinging all the way into his shoulder, then the scratches and the bruises on his hips. ' _still filthy, still used...'_

He stopped abruptly when he noticed the red tint of the water pooling at his feet and rushing down the drain. His chest was smeared with blood and he could hear the faint remnants of malicious laughter ringing in his head. Trembling in the now cold stream, he turned off the shower, silence enveloping him once more.

…

John woke the next morning to find Sherlock, not in his room, but standing in the kitchen, calmly drinking his tea. As far as he could tell, his presence had not yet been noticed. His flatmate stood with an air of quiet dignity, his demeanor contrasting sharply with the darkness under his eyes.

"Good morning," John said quietly, and he noticed a slight flinch; a twitch of the eye and a minute jerk of the shoulder which bespoke Sherlock's inner unease. "Sorry."

"Not at all, John," he replied, his face slipping back into his mask of constant composure. John must have been staring because Sherlock eventually turned his face away from him, favoring the company of the countertop.

The movement however, displayed the angry red marks on the side of his neck, newly clotted. John's sharp intake of breath brought Sherlock's hand to the wound, covering it as if doing so would make John forget it was there.

"What happened to the bandage?"

"It…got wet in the shower. It was doing no good so I took it off."

"Hold on, I have some more upstairs," John said, before disappearing up the staircase. He rummaged through the bags of unpacked clothes and toiletries until he located his first aid kit and hurried back to the kitchen.

Sherlock eyed the kit apprehensively and John told him to lean down. He noticed this particularly because normally, doctors would ask their patients to have a seat. That meant John was still thinking about it and how Sherlock wouldn't want to sit and this irritated him.

"Something wrong?" John asked innocently, antibacterial wipe and bandage poised.

"Why did you ask me to lean down?"

"Well I don't know if you've noticed but our height difference happens to be quite significant and it would help a great deal if you were to lean down a bit."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the evasion but he silently complied. John's fingers made him jump at first but he halted, making sure it was okay before continuing to sterilize the wound. He liked that, he enjoyed the burning of the antiseptic and the idea that it was working. John's touch wasn't as bothersome as the nurse's had been but the close proximity made him a little anxious.

He finished quickly, declaring that Sherlock was "all patched up" and then busied himself with a cup of tea. Sherlock watched him, observed him for a moment more before grabbing his netbook from the desk and retreating to his room.


	4. Repressing

Sherlock glowered at the computer screen and his empty e-mail inbox. No cases to speak of; not a single one. But his phone, he hadn't checked his phone yet. Where was it? A pang of realization: his phone was gone, gone because of… He growled and considered hurling his computer against the wall but managed to restrain himself. That's what he would be expecting; an outburst. He would not give him the satisfaction.

He refreshed the page but still nothing. Slamming it closed, he got off his bed and began to pace back and forth across the room. And when that gave him no outlet and no haven from the black thoughts lingering at the back of his mind, he pushed them back firmly and wandered into the living room. John sat staring vacantly at the telly, his mind obviously somewhere else entirely.

Sherlock sighed to announce his presence, causing the other man to jump and turn.

"Sherlock…what is it?" John's eyes darted swiftly up and down Sherlock then around the room.

"Has Lestrade contacted you?"

"Wh- no…?" he looked utterly bemused.

"He hasn't sent me a single case," Sherlock said through gritted teeth as he moved to look out the window.

John was silent for a moment, blinking dumbly before: "You can't possibly be serious."

"John can I use your phone?" he asked, hand already outstretched expectantly.

"Huh? No! No, you cannot use my phone to call Lestrade! You must be absolutely mad to even consider…"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him as if daring him to complete his sentence, "I am in fact perfectly capable, if that's what you're worried about."

"Bollocks."

His eyebrows shot to his hairline as John continued, "No matter how much you think you're ready or how much you want to distract yourself, there is no possible way that you can. It's just a fact. Actually, it's unhealthy to even be thinking on it."

Sherlock sneered as he stalked up and down the room like a lion in a cage. "For anyone  _else_ , doctor. But I am the world's only consulting detective, without which Scotland Yard is shockingly useless. Now, your phone, John, if you please or I will just have to go and ask Mrs. Hudson."

John shook his head staunchly, "Sherlock, you have to listen to reason. Your physical condition alone is enough to keep you grounded, but your mental state is bound to be far worse, and frankly it concerns me that you aren't more rattled about this whole thing."

"It was a blip, John. It was a minor…invasion…that threw me off track for the time being but that's all it was. There is no logical reason to react any more strongly to such an affair."

John just stared at him as if he had an octopus on his head and Sherlock felt himself getting fidgety. "No, Sherlock, you cannot use my phone."

Sherlock turned for the stairs when John said, "And Mrs. Hudson is out." He let out something akin to a snarl before storming back to his room and slamming the door shut behind him, momentarily defeated.

He leaned his back against the door, kneading his fingers into his temples. He briefly considered just taking himself directly to Scotland Yard but something about the idea of going out without John made his skin crawl; especially in a taxi. This uneasiness made him angry because of its illogic; based so solely on emotions.

Sherlock knew that the chances of him being abducted again were at least a thousand to one. His assailant had already gotten his message across, though Sherlock was still not sure what it meant. It was a threat, obviously. His callousness held no sexuality, only the brute force of power; a warning or a punishment but he didn't recall ever seeing the man before in his life. What could he have done then?

…

John paced for a while, not sure what to do with himself and then finally sat back down. He switched off the television, the dialog just noise to his befuddled brain and tried his best to deduce the problem of Sherlock.

It wasn't right, it just couldn't be. Even Sherlock Holmes had emotions, though he was good at keeping them hidden; but they were there, John knew. When the case was brought to him by Lestrade that first night, there was overwhelming excitement; when they were in the cab and John had said he was amazing, there had been tentative hope in Sherlock's voice and a faint tinge in his cheeks which he had tried to conceal by turning towards the window; and there had been fear when he woke up in the ambulance, panic even. If he possessed these emotions, chances are he possessed the rest of them.

This was repression, John decided. Sherlock was bottling it all up inside him, cramming everything into the recesses of his mind and to keep them from drifting back, he wanted a distraction. Anything, he supposed, to keep the memories at bay. It must be alarming, John thought, for a self-proclaimed sociopath to deal with all of these devastating feelings at once.

There was only one thing for it: Sherlock Holmes needed a psychiatrist.

…

The next day, there came a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson sent up Inspector Lestrade. John greeted him but Sherlock soon came bounding out of his room, all keyed up and anxious for whatever news he had to offer. The DI eyed at him with a measured amount of alarm and confusion as Sherlock carried on, business as usual.

"Sherlock," John interrupted, "This isn't about a case."

His face fell he glared at Lestrade suspiciously, "What is it you want then?"

Lestrade was unfazed by Sherlock's usual rudeness and pressed onward like one who has bad news to deliver and wishes to get it over and done with as soon as possible. "He's right, it's not about  _a_  case, it's about your  _future_  cases."

Sherlock continued to stare at him as if he wished to unravel his brain like yarn.

"John and I have come to the agreement that it would be in everyone's best interest for me to not allow you to assist on any cases until you consent to see a psychiatrist and make visible improvements."

Sherlock felt as if the world around him shifted suddenly out of proportion. No cases,  _none_. No distractions whatsoever. And a bloody  _shrink_? A person who actually forced him to discuss it, to describe his  _feelings_? It was not fair and he told them so, hoping the horror didn't show too much on his face.

John was steadfast but wore an apologetic look as Sherlock ranted, running amok until Lestrade shouted, "ENOUGH!"

Sherlock calmed himself long enough to say, "I don't understand any of this. Can't you see that I'm fine? I'm ready to work! I need to work!"

"And that," Lestrade said with an air of finality, "is exactly why you can't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting this a couple of chapters at a time, as I've already written 1-14. Thanks for the views and kudos, to those who left them :) Comments will also be much appreciated.


	5. Understanding

The room was done in sage green and off-white with lacey curtains over the large window. The couch had tiny embroidered flowers along the back and there was a potted fern on the end table. Lovely. Sherlock sat, nerves coiled like springs as he watched the woman's hand, which held a pen that scratched rapidly over the notepad in her lap.

She appeared to be in her early thirties with long apricot colored hair and green eyes behind purple half-moon glasses. Whatever it was she was wearing was flowing and white, as if she hoped to be as ludicrously whimsical as her room. Sherlock didn't trust her. She had tried to make small talk at first, which Sherlock deduced to be a sorry attempt at luring him into a false sense of security. He made it a point not to give her anything to work with, supplying one word responses if he, in fact, answered her at all.

It especially bothered him that she seemed unperturbed by any of his rudeness and kept the same calm smile plastered on her face. And quite honestly, if she asked him how he felt about this or that one more time, he might actually lunge at her.

"And how would you describe your childhood?" she asked, still smiling serenely.

That did it. Sherlock rose to his feet, prepared to storm out in a flurry of coattails. "Well, this has been thoroughly unhelpful," he declared, the woman's eyes growing wide in surprise, "If all we're going to do is talk about the weather or any other irrelevant issues like my  _childhood_  for goodness sake, then I think it would be best to terminate our brief acquaintance." He held out his hand in a sharp, snapping motion, expecting her to take it meekly.

Needless to say, he found it disheartening when her eyes narrowed severely and stared him down. "Mr. Holmes, Sherlock," she began, slipping off her glasses and holding his eye contact mercilessly, "It's true that I've tried to get to know you a bit but you haven't even let me do that. As soon as I began asking you questions, you assaulted me with a barrage of deductions, like my recent vacation to Ireland and that my hairdresser is left-handed.

I see that you're a man that likes to get to the point. We can do that, if you like. We can dive straight into the nitty gritty and I can throw it in your face that you were not simply intruded upon but raped. Raped. Say it to yourself a couple of times. Coming to terms with that fact is the first step to recovery. And I realize that you don't like me but until your mental health is up to par with what I find suitable for you to return to work, it seems that we are stuck together. Now it just so happens that we are out of time. I'll see you next week."

Sherlock blinked and then again, his mouth trying to form words but none were coming to his mind; so he settled with a glare before stalking out of the room. As he thundered down the stairs to the street, he hated to admit that he was starting to like her.

…

Mycroft was waiting outside for him in one of his signature black cars. They sat across from each other and assumed a tense silence while Mycroft shuffled through a pile of paperwork.

After several moments his brother said, "So how was your session?"

Sherlock didn't answer and knew that he wasn't expected to. Mycroft simply gave a placid smile and returned to his papers. He loathed that smile; he had been getting them all day. It was just so condescending and  _fake_. Then again, most of Mycroft's smiles were fake.

After an eternity, they rolled up in front of 221b and Sherlock couldn't get out of the car fast enough. He had made it halfway when Mycroft halted him with: "Oh, Sherlock, I nearly forgot," he pulled a mass of folded black material from a bag sitting next to him. Sherlock recognized it at once. "I figured you'd be wanting your coat back. That old grey one you're wearing is all worn at the elbows."

Sherlock gave him a curt "Thank you" and snatched the coat before slamming the door and hurrying into the building. Before he could reach the stairs, however, he was caught by Mrs. Hudson's hand on his arm.

"Sherlock dear, I've just made some soup if you-

"No thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he tried to escape but her grip tightened and he was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

"Some tea perhaps? Bicuits?"

"No, I'm really not…no thank you," he stumbled and wrenched his arm away before taking the stairs two at a time, which wasn't good for his sore muscles but he felt the urgent need for space.

He burst into the flat, shocking John who had been typing on his laptop. "You alright?" he asked, no doubt noting his disheveled and paranoid state.

"Fine," he said too quickly, too breathlessly and John noticed.

John watched him carefully as he lowered himself into his chair and drew up his legs. He waited a moment and then shut his laptop and took his usual chair, propping the union jack pillow up behind his back. There was silence as Sherlock stared daggers into the black television screen and John floundered for something to say.

He thought back to his time in therapy and knew that he wouldn't have enjoyed discussing it with anyone. He had actually been ashamed that he needed someone else to tell him his own thoughts and feelings. So he cleared his throat and decided to talk about something else.

"What's your favorite color?"

It was so abrupt that it made Sherlock blink and stare at him as if he had suggested they pop round on the Queen. "What?" he asked, despite his hate of repetition.

"Well, I just thought we'd talk about something less stressful," the quiet made him second guess the whole idea, "Never mind, if you prefer not to talk then I-

"Blue."

"Pardon?"

"I like blue."

John grinned that crooked grin that made Sherlock's mouth twitch at the corners. "I like blue too. And red; I've never been able to decide."

Sherlock nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. John thought about how young he looked, knees pulled up to his chin and fingers laced around his legs, which brought him to his next question.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

He  _was_  young. He was so young. It made John all the more sorry for what had happened to him and his hatred for that monster only intensified. Sherlock's questioning gaze made him realize he had been frowning and twisted it back into a smile.

"Thirty-four."

"Damn, I guessed thirty-two."

John chuckled, "Very flattering of you."

Sherlock uncurled himself, stretching out his legs and looking altogether more relaxed. "So what made you decide to go into the army?"

Well that was a surprise. "I uh…well I guess it was sort of inevitable. Soldier is in my blood. My father was in the army and his father before him and as far back as I can trace it. I felt I would be doing more good out there, saving men on the battlefield than prescribing medicine for a cough."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed with something akin to admiration and dare he think it,  _fondness_? "And that is where we are the same," he said with a good-natured smirk, "We both like making a difference."

John felt something warm expanding in his chest and he knew that Sherlock's words were true. As different as they were in some ways (Lord knowing intellect was one of them) deep down, they were the same.


	6. Returning

Still 2 AM. The glowing numbers on the alarm clock seemed to be stuck. Sherlock sighed in annoyance and sat up, swinging his feet onto the floor. He wouldn't be getting any sleep that night.

The flat was dark and silent. John was soundly sleeping by now. Funny how the sitting room seemed so cold without his presence. His empty chair was a dark, hunched shadow in the sparse light from the street. He hated the small, niggling fear he felt in the darkness for he knew how quickly it could spring into panic. Illogical, irrational,  _stupid_  panic.

He needed to get out, to leave on his own, if only just to prove to himself that he had nothing to be afraid of. He padded back to his room and pulled his clothes on, slipping his shoes on quietly by the door, along with his coat, before quietly closing it behind him. He trod lightly on the stairs, careful to skip the one that squeaked and with a cursory glance at Mrs. Hudson's door, escaped onto the front stoop. Baker Street was vacant, save the occasional taxi cab and even rarer passer-by. The street lamps glowed dimly in front of their respective doors.

With a last look around him, Sherlock gathered his great coat against the January chill and began to walk. He didn't know where he was headed, he just needed to go somewhere. Rounding the block, his confidence rose and he was soon weaving in and out of alleys, as was his usual custom. It was only when he paused to catch his breath that he felt like he was being watched.

"Ridiculous," he whispered to himself and kept walking. He was so caught up in dashing through back roads and courtyards that it wasn't long before he found himself in a less reputable part of London. He was never really worried though, he was used to dealing with the unsavory sort; and yet, the prickling feeling of being followed only grew stronger. He darted down an alley, content to make his way back home, when a hand descended on his shoulder.

"Just give me the money and nobody gets hurt," said a gruff, unfamiliar voice before another hand delved inside his coat.

Something triggered inside Sherlock's brain and instead of wisely letting the man take what he wanted, he slung his elbow back into the man's face. There was a howl of pain and the grip on Sherlock tightened until he was pressed into the wall of the alley. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, but it wasn't the cold of the knife against his throat that terrified him.

He was petrified, mentally at least, for his body struggled vehemently against the attacker and for whatever inane reason, he called out for John like he had before. And there was a crack, a groan, and his assailant's body went limp. He landed in a heap on the ground and Sherlock opened his tightly closed eyes.

"John," he breathed as he saw the blond man standing before him, the butt of his revolver still raised.

Their eyes met and John rushed to him, fingers tilting his head back to examine his neck and all other exposed skin for injuries. It appeared that he suddenly realized what he was doing and jumped back to a more respectable distance.

"You alright?" he asked, clearing his throat apologetically.

Sherlock didn't know what to say for once in his life, so he just nodded. John knelt, searched the man for his ID, and jotted it down in the notebook he always carried. His hands weren't shaking a bit.

"George Sanders," he said as he replaced the book in his jacket pocket, "We'll let Lestrade know tomorrow, eh?"

…

They were halfway home before Sherlock managed to say, "Um…what you did…thank you." His face burned. He hadn't sincerely said "thank you" since the last Christmas he spent with his family. He wasn't sure that it came out right but John literally beamed at him.

It was remarkable, really. He looked ten years younger, smiling up at him like that. Sherlock looked away, red-faced and feeling quite confused.

…

"Nearly 4 AM," John announced with a yawn as they entered the flat, "You going back to sleep?"

"No."

"Well I am. I figure I should start looking for work in the morning."

This struck Sherlock as a surprise. He should have considered it before, really. They had no source of income since…since Sherlock had become invalided from his cause. The uncomfortable feeling of guilt clawed at the inside of his chest. This was his fault. If he had been smarter, quicker, more alert, he could have prevented all of this. It wasn't right that John would have to take on all of the responsibilities.

"No, don't do that, I…" he was talking before the thought had finished forming itself in his mind, "I…can get money."

John blinked at him, "From where?"

"There's always something I could sell," he replied, thinking of his small stash of drugs, the presence of which had been tempting him for the past few days. "And if all else fails, there's always…Mycroft." Just saying it left a bad taste in his mouth. He had sworn that he'd never ask his brother for money.

"Forget about, it Sherlock," John said, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly, "Besides, it's not all bad. I actually enjoy being a doctor, you know? Night." John gave him a brief smile before turning and climbing the stairs to his room.

It wasn't until after he was gone that Sherlock realized that he hadn't so much as flinched at his touch. If it had been anyone else, he would have surely pulled away in fright and disgust. He sat down in his chair and drew up his legs. He definitely wouldn't be sleeping that night; he had far too much to ponder.

…

It was a little after one in the afternoon when John returned in high spirits. Sherlock knew he had gotten a job before he had even made it up the stairs; none of his careful stride, just rapid, bounding energy as he entered the room.

"Got a job!" he announced to Sherlock, who was lying on the couch with his hands pressed together under his chin.

"Yes, I know," he replied, his eyes still shut.

"How…? Never-mind, I don't need to know. Anyway, it's just a small practice but it'll pay the bills. And better yet, I think the boss likes me."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as his mind flicked through every implication and meaning of the word "like". He finally settled on the safest one, "Well of course he likes you. Why else would you be hired on the spot?"

John chuckled, "First off, it's a  _she_ , secondly, I'm very qualified –thank you-, and thirdly, I think you know what I mean. Oh, and this was by the front door. There was no address so I assumed it was for you."

Sherlock made a low disgruntled sound when a small cardboard box was dropped on his chest. He picked it up to examine it: indeed, no address, no postage marks, couldn't have gone through the mail then, must have been dropped off by someone who had personal business with him. His brow furrowed; he hadn't gotten a call from Mycroft about any of this and he had nothing on at the moment, thanks to _someone_.

It obviously wasn't volatile (it had been dropped on him without exploding) unless of course it was rigged somehow from the inside. He carefully peeled off the packing tape before going to his chemistry table (also known as the kitchen table) for a pair of long beaker tongs. He placed the box on the table and perched on the back of the couch before using the tongs to gently open the lid.

Nothing happened. He climbed down to survey the contents underneath the packing peanuts. He knew what it was as soon as his hand closed around it. A knot formed in his stomach as he brought the phone into the light;  _his_  phone, the phone he had lost during the…assault.

"Oh, looks just like your old one," John said, coming in from the kitchen with a mug of tea in his hands, "Is it from your brother?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No, John. It  _is_  my old one." He turned it over in his hand, and sure enough, there was the scuff mark from when he had dropped it on the stairs of his old flat a year ago.

The phone was blinking. He had one new message.


	7. Touching

With the attitude of someone whose turn has come around in a game of Russian roulette, Sherlock tapped open the message.

' _Seeing a psychiatrist now, are we Sherlock? But I taught you a valuable lesson and I won't soon let you forget it. Come to think of it, I learned a great deal from you as well. What was it your stepfather did to you exactly?'_

"What does it say?" John's voice was anxious but Sherlock couldn't formulate a response. The final sentence turned circles in his head and taunted him with hidden meaning. It was if something was there, obscured by a dark veil and just out of his reach…something that should have been deleted long ago.

"Sherlock!" He had ripped the SIM card from his phone and chucked the device itself out of the open window before fully registering his own actions. "Sherlock, what in hell…!"

"John, may I borrow your mobile?" He trampled over John's questioning with the demand and received said phone with only a protesting scowl.

"My mobile had better not get the same treatment or I'll- who are you texting?"

"Mycroft."

' _There's a flaw in your bloody surveillance system. –SH'_

John was looking out the window for the phone but it was no use; Sherlock had thrown it out of sight. He shoved the mobile back into John's hands before commencing a brisk pace across the sitting room. John watched him and noticed the minute traces of something akin to panic in his eyes, in the nervous raking of his hands into his dark hair.

Fear had coiled in his stomach from the moment the package had arrived and from the looks of it, his conclusions were correct. He knew without asking that it was from him. From Moriarty. The idea of it…that he was still capable of terrorizing Sherlock and there was virtually nothing John could do besides tracking him down and shooting the son of a bitch between the eyes, made him physically ill. All he could do was watch as Sherlock, with five nicotine patches on each arm, Sherlock who still had nightmares, Sherlock who careened around the room like a humming bird with all of the windows shut, broke just a little bit more. He was breaking faster than John could fix him.

"Sherlock," he tried but the other man just carried on like he hadn't even heard. He needed to get his mind off of this and fast before he actually went to pieces.

"Sherlock, do you want to go to Bart's?"

"What for?" He continued to pace but John could tell he had his attention.

"Dunno, maybe Molly will let you look at some fresh bodies?"

He slowed and eventually came to a stop.

Sherlock considered. He wasn't allowed any cases; there had been weeks of nothing, boredom (besides the nighttime walk escapade) and at least this was something. And it was a something that was distracting. John knew this, of course he did, but Sherlock couldn't fault him for it in the least because it was exactly what he needed. After all, it was a safer alternative to the morphine that he could so easily have his fingers on if left alone for an instant. He agreed and John's relief was palpable. This was fascinating. He watched as the other man's gently lined face relaxed and a hopeful light sparked in his dark blue eyes. Peculiar eyes they were. Dark and deep, like the ocean. They must be rare because Sherlock had never seen such eyes before. Confusion wrinkled John's dark blond brows as they pulled together and his head tipped just slightly to the side.

"What are you staring at?"

"Just your face."

"…My face? Is something wrong with it?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock said with a wry smirk, "Anyway, it's no cause for alarm on your part. Shall we go then?"

"Yeah…yeah sure." John's lips quirked into a smile that Sherlock had previously deduced meant that he wasn't sure if he should be smiling or not. It was nice.

They grabbed their coats and Sherlock swung open the door, only to be greeted with Mycroft's assistant Anthea (or whomever she was that day) and her raised fist, poised to knock. She simply smiled and extended a new Blackberry to Sherlock, who skeptically accepted it.

"Any word from my brother?"

"The system has crashed but we're working as fast as we can to fix it," she replied, tapping away busily at her own phone.

"It had been hacked," It wasn't quite a question or a statement.

Her face remained placid and immovable but she voiced no response and Sherlock pushed past her and down the stairs. John apologized hurriedly before racing to catch up. They remained stood on the pavement and John knew that this was the point Sherlock usually called for a taxi but he seemed frozen, hand partially raised and John could practically hear his thoughts going a mile a minute. He was still frightened and fighting it all the while.

John wasn't sure exactly why he did but he hooked his arm through Sherlock's firmly, comfortingly before calling a cab himself. It was the first time he had ever been able to hail one on the first go and that was an accomplishment in and of itself, not to mention the way Sherlock was looking at him. It was if he had just levitated or something else equally awe-inspiring. One would think he had just hung the moon.

Sherlock had never been so intrigued by a living human being. John's capacity to care was overwhelming to say the least. People he had known for most of his life didn't care near as much as John Watson did and he had no inkling as to why. It wasn't the same way a soldier protects and it wasn't exactly doctorial either. It was like he liked him. Truly liked him, and that was astonishing because all that had happened since they'd met had been bad, traumatic, or both. He was a wonder, an absolute wonder and he didn't even know it.

John drew his arm back in the cab, clearing his throat just loud enough to break the silence as he did so and simultaneously took all of the warmth away. Sherlock's arm was cold and bereft, just like the rest of him because he had never noticed just how spectacularly warm John was until now. A moment passed, a long moment before Sherlock adjusted himself just so his shoulder would gently brush John's. There was the warmth again, for just a split second and it wasn't nearly enough.

…

It took some convincing and clever manipulating for Sherlock to ferret his way into the mortuary but it wasn't like he hadn't done it before. But now John was with him and not disgusted and that was nicer than being by himself. That thought was so shocking that he'd have to rethink it later and give it its own timeslot.

Unfortunately, he had left his riding crop at the flat, so he was left to do some practice. His brain needed the exercise to keep it from rotting so he went from gurney to gurney, deducing ages, occupations, and causes of deaths left and right. A musician, 31, drug overdose, heroine; A school teacher, 54, heart attack, cholesterol related; A dealer, or pimp, most likely pimp, 28, gunshots to the chest and back of the head, definitely multiple assassins, a gang assault.

He could have gone on to tell what exactly their last meals had been but John's phone chimed that he had a message.

' _I suppose you forgot our lunch date.'_

John's heart dropped and his stomach twisted with guilt. Sarah. He had made a date with his boss for over an hour and half ago and had completely forgotten. And it had been  _he_  that had asked  _her_  out and now he felt like a total arse. There wasn't really anything at all he could say to amend the situation but he tried.

' _My God, I am so sorry, Sarah. I was totally preoccupied with my friend. He's been going through a rough patch lately and I was trying to take his mind off things.'_

A moment later and:

' _Well I hope he's alright now. Maybe we could reschedule?'_

Well that was quite a bit better than what he deserved.

' _Of course, yes. Anytime.'_

' _Next Saturday for dinner, then? Eight o'clock?'_

' _Sounds lovely.'_

' _Great, I'll see you then. Hopefully_ _'_

' _Definitely.'_

"You missed your date."

"…I don't recall ever having mentioned my-

"You didn't have to. It wasn't hard to figure out after all. That cold, sick look on your face and the rapid typing were quite telling.'

"Right…"

"So are you going?"

"Rescheduled."

"Ah."

John looked about the room and then back to Sherlock's calculating, catlike eyes. "So are you about done here?"

"I think so."

…

They came to a stop when they made it outside, John briefly looking at his watch. "Well," he began, "We're out of milk again so I'll be needing to head to the market. Will you be wanting to meet me back at home then?"

He had almost turned to go, knowing that Sherlock loathed shopping when he was stunned into stillness by: "No, I…I can go. With you, I mean. I'll go with you."

John turned back to him slowly, blinking and not sure he had heard correctly but the look on Sherlock's face was odd, uncertain almost. Obviously there was no way he could have refused, not even if he had wanted to. "Okay, yeah. Great."

…

They were walking side by side in the garish light of the grocery and it felt so oddly domestic that Sherlock knew that he didn't fit in at all. In fact, he had gotten some sideways glances to prove it. But then again, he had never cared too much for fitting in, dreary business that was.

It all was almost going fine until John had stopped to pick up some pasta and a man turned down the aisle. A man on the small side with dark hair and an expensive dark suit. John felt Sherlock tense beside him, his eyes gone wide and his shoulders rigid.

"Sherlock?"

It lasted for only a moment as he seemed to shake himself out of it, looking rather paler than usual. "It's nothing," he said, his voice strangely subdued, "I was just mistaken, that was all."

Sherlock's body was incased in ice; he had never felt so cold and John seemed to be the only warm thing. He was beside him with his blond and his blue and his soft beige and he screamed comfort so loudly that he was unable to resist. He knew it was a risk as he was doing it but he was pretty sure this was a life or death situation: He pulled off his glove and laced his fingers through John's.

The smaller man jolted, his head whipping around to look at Sherlock, who had turned his face down and away, hoping that John wouldn't snatch his hand back because the heat was already traveling up his arm and into his chest and he couldn't really think of anything that had felt this good in a long time, maybe in forever.

But John said nothing and pressed his fingers in gently. He smiled at the people who gave them looks and was even civil to the chip and pin machine. He continued holding his hand in the cab and all the way back to 221b.


	8. Riding

Sherlock woke in a sweat. Someone had screamed. Had it been him? He couldn't remember. The last remnants of the dream were dissolving back into his subconscious. It was that fog again, the veil. All he could recall was hiding and being more scared and helpless than he had ever been. But scared of whom, he didn't know.

The door opened wide enough for John to put his head inside. "Sherlock? You okay? I heard you scream…"

"Hmm? Yes. Fine. I'm fine."

John hesitated, his fingers picking nervously at the wood of the doorframe. "You know, you don't have to but…if you ever want to talk to someone…besides the therapist…um. I'm here."

Sherlock watched him, silhouetted in the light from the hall, his blue eyes trained on the floor in a discomfited fashion. But beyond that, in his manner, in his voice, was that unrelenting care, that goodness. Sherlock smiled slightly and nodded his confirmation that John could return to bed. He did, returning a tight smile, his fingers scratching briefly at the hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Goodnight, then."

…

"Sherlock…why don't you tell me about your father."

He immediately bristled, "Why?"

"I'm the psychiatrist, it's my job to ask the questions," she replied firmly, adjusting her glasses on her prim nose.

Sherlock sighed, his eyes drifting to the window as he was greeted with unwanted memories. "My biological father," his voice was full of scorn and he shook his head grimly, "He was an abusive bastard."

"Did he hit you?"

"Of course. Though there are few instances I can remember. He left when I was six."

"Why did he leave?"

"He hit my mother." This particular memory was always vivid, burned into his brain; undeletable. "My brother Mycroft, he was thirteen, had had enough. He pulled him off of her and punched him across the face. My father broke Mycroft's nose and left. That's that."

There was a pause in which the psychiatrist, she had told Sherlock to call her Abby (though as of yet, he refused) scribbled some notes down on her pad. He still found this highly irritating, as well as the angle at which she held it so that he could not read her writing. Crafty, she was.

"Now. I noticed you said biological father. I'm to assume that you had a stepfather after him?"

"Yes."

"And what was he like?"

"I don't remember much about him. He only lasted a few years though."

Abby's brows flickered downward for the shortest of moments before she regained her calm façade. "You have clear memories from when you were six but you can't remember anything of your stepfather?"

Sherlock actually tried to remember, he really did, but in all honesty he could barely recall what the man looked like. That dark veil, like a smudge, it blotted out his memories. He closed his eyes against a dull headache that was forming, pressing his temples between his thumb and middle finger.

"Sherlock," she began and her voice was a bit tentative, coaxing, "Will you let me try something with you?"

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Depends on what it is."

She slid off her glasses and leaned forward in her seat. "I want to hypnotize you."

He scoffed immediately, "Rubbish."

"It's only rubbish if you believe it is. You can only be hypnotized if you allow yourself to be."

"And what exactly will this accomplish?"

"You can't get at your memories, can you?"

His spine prickled with what felt like ice needles and he remained silent.

"Please. I really think it will help you and if it doesn't, we'll never have to do it again." Sherlock watched her, calculating. "Besides, what have you got to lose, anyway?"

"Only my integrity," he sighed but she could tell that he was coming around.

"The sooner you're better, the sooner you get to work, right? We don't have to do it today. Next time you come in, so that you're prepared."

Sherlock skeptically wondered just what exactly he need be prepared for but he reluctantly agreed nonetheless. She was right after all. She was quite good at being right.

"Good," she smiled, a real smile this time, "Now we still have a bit of time left and there's one more person I want to ask you about."

'Great,' Sherlock thought, 'Let me guess, Mum? Mycroft? My bloody Aunt Geraldine?'

"And who precisely would that be?"

"John."

Sherlock jolted. "What about him?"

"What is your relationship?"

He was suddenly anxious, a feeling that truly put him off, especially when he didn't know why. "We're flatmates. Obviously. Colleagues. Friends." He cleared his throat and wondered what time it was. Surely it was almost time for this to be over.

She looked at him and there was something behind her eyes, a flicker of knowing. What could she know? It angered him and he seriously considered storming out.

"He really cares about you."

Sherlock tensed, feeling a bit hot under the collar, "I know."

"How do you feel about him?"

"What does that matter?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. It reminded him of Mycroft and he hated it. "John is…John is good. A lot better than I am. He doesn't deserve to go through this…mess."

She had been about to reply when her phone chirped. Their time was up and Sherlock was off of the sofa and down the stairs faster than ever before. He stepped onto the street and promptly collided with another body. He was about to mutter a prefabricated apology when he realized just who he had bumped into.

"John…"

"Hey," he said cheerfully, brandishing two cups of coffee. "Lucky these didn't spill. Black, two sugars right?"

"…Thank you." Sherlock replied dumbly, taking the cup and silently working out why John would possibly be here.

"I gave Mycroft the day off and came to get you myself."

"Thoughtful of you," Sherlock remarked, taking a sip of his coffee.

"So…do you want to do something?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Maybe ride the Eye or something else ridiculously touristy?"

Sherlock snorted, catching the brim of the giant wheel against the skyline. And then it occurred to him; 'why not?' He said as much and was greeted with an almost giddy smile from John. He felt his own lips twitch in response and an odd lightness filling his chest. He hailed a cab.

…

It was the early evening before they made it, the queue having dwindled as it grew later. John preferred it this way, when the lights came on. He had only ridden once before, and that was shortly after it had opened in 2000 and he was filled with an odd sense of childish excitement.

He smiled sidelong at Sherlock as they approached, wondering if he'd figure out his secret. Of course it all became too clear when John produced previously procured tickets from his coat pocket and they were shown into a private capsule. He had made the specific request for no champagne and that they be left alone.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise after they had begun to sluggishly ascend. "You did this."

"Yep. I just, you know. I thought you'd be more comfortable if there were less people chattering and jostling about.

Sherlock's answering beatific grin told John he had indeed done the right thing. They stood in silence, just watching the city as they rose higher into the night sky before Sherlock said, "You know, I've never done this before."

John's head whipped around to stare at him. "Seriously? I mean, I thought everyone had done it at least once. Just to say they have."

"I guess I didn't think it would be as nice. As it is."

John smiled.

…

They were nearing the top and Sherlock could see at least thirty kilometers in every direction. His eyes roved from Big Ben, to Buckingham Palace, to the blurring lights of traffic. They spanned over the city, his city. He truly did love it. He glanced at John, who hadn't stopped grinning this entire time.

Lights glinted off his eyes as he stared in wonderment at the world below them. He was close but he was too far and Sherlock's hand was feeling cold again. He hadn't protested before but somehow, this time seemed different, more profound. Uncertainty welled in Sherlock's chest as his fingers reached searchingly for John's.

When they brushed, John's body jerked slightly and he cast him a brief, perplexing smile before turning back to the city and silently lacing his fingers through Sherlock's.


	9. Maddening

It had been an exceptionally boring day. The rain had only just stopped and Sherlock had spent the majority of the afternoon deducing his way through achingly transparent murder mysteries and had now moved on to predicting plot turns in soap operas. It was really quite easy. By the end of the third episode, he realized he could narrow it down to a family fortune, a freak accident, or (and now, he loved these) an evil twin.

He was just considering taking the telly apart and piecing it back together again when he heard John's familiar footsteps descending the stairs from his bedroom.

"Right," John sighed as he reached the bottom, "How do I look?"

Sherlock turned his head, the cursory glance and the noncommittal "fine" all prepared when he actually caught sight of John. He was wearing a black blazer with matching trousers, his shoes shined with military precision, a button up shirt, and a dark blue tie that matched his eyes perfectly. The detective blinked at him, floundering for something to say before he finally landed on a breathy, "Good," he cleared his throat and tried again, "You look good."

John broke into one of those face-splitting grins and smoothed a hand over his already immaculate blond hair. "Yeah?"

Sherlock gathered his wits and plastered a strictly not-interested look on his face before he asked, "What's the occasion?"

John's face fell a little and a small frown creased his brow. "What'd you mean? It's Friday." Sherlock's blank stare. "Friday," he reiterated, hoping somehow that his grand hand gestures would help. "I have a date with Sarah! I told you about it at the end of last week."

Sherlock shrugged, feeling his mood darken a fraction. "Must have deleted it." John looked concerned now and he fidgeted in the doorway, "You'll be alright though? On your own?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" he snapped, turning his attention back to the poor acting on screen.

"Okay," John replied, sounding apologetic and slipped on his coat. He laid a hand briefly on Sherlock's shoulder before departing.

Sherlock regretted it the instant he heard the front door close. He should've thrown a tantrum or something, just to get him to stay. He was on his feet and peering out the window before he knew it, watching as John tried, with difficulty, to flag down a cab. They were going somewhere quite nice, judging by John's attire. They were obviously meeting at the restaurant or some predetermined rendezvous because he knew that John could walk to Sarah's. Or perhaps he didn't want to muss up his clothes. Perhaps they weren't going anywhere at all. Maybe they were having a romantic dinner at her flat.

Sherlock's stomach squirmed uncomfortably. He hoped that wasn't the case. Of course, he didn't know that much about relationships but that seemed a bit too forward for a first date. He watched as John disappeared into a cab and Sherlock's forehead met the window with a quiet thud. He had been about to return to his seat when his eye caught someone standing on the other side of the road; a small someone with dark hair and a dark suit. His body tensed and when he blinked, the man was gone.

Sherlock felt the annoying, niggling sensation of worry that made something inside him sink even further. And suddenly, he wasn't worried about himself; he was worried for John. The realization was foreign and unsettling in the extreme: to worry about someone, someone that you can't protect because he's outside and away from you and you're just too damn  _frightened_ to do anything.

The mug smashed against the wall with a startlingly loud crack and the remnants of cold tea trickled down the wall like blood. He let out a breath and untangled his hands from his hair before lowering himself to the floor in a defeated heap. Pure exhaustion was creeping in on him like the tide but he had to stay awake and vigil and wait for John. He couldn't give in until he was home and in his reach, where nothing could happen; where it was all jumpers and warm smiles and offers of tea and takeouts and…

"Bloody Hell, Sherlock!"

He opened his eyes to John striding across the room to him, where he was still against the wall, his eyes bleary with sleep. There was a barrage of questions that his sluggish mind wasn't prepared to answer and above all else, there was the soft pressure of John's hand on his forehead and then on his cheek.

"Are you alright? What's with the mug?"

"S'an experiment," Sherlock answered lamely, clamoring to his feet with the help of John's grip on his upper arm.

"Sherlock," John tried, taking hold of both shoulders and forcing him to look in his eyes.

Dark warm blue, concerned, demanding, and soft at the same time; Sherlock took momentary leave of his better judgment. His hands gently cupped John's face as he looked at him, felt the blood that heated his skin, felt that he was alive and unhurt. John was still but he was confused and was about to say something before Sherlock relinquished him and was ten feet away in the blink of an eye.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said before disappearing through the kitchen and into his bedroom.

Sherlock closed the door behind him, breathing out unsteadily before he commenced pacing the room, because there was really nothing else he could do. No longer plagued with worrying for John's safety, he was now free to latch onto more uncomfortable, unwanted emotions. He wondered about the date. He almost considered asking John how it went but he feared actually hearing the details might be more than he could stand. But it was there; he closed his eyes and he could imagine it.

John watching her with those eyes, John laughing and smiling for her, and his hands…she wouldn't dare, would she? He could see it: across the tabletop or walking together, their hands joined, fingers laced and he was pacing far too quickly now. That was  _his_ territory. How could she even think about it? John's hand belonged to him; hell, it was invisibly emblazoned with his name!

He stopped short, startling himself and breathing hard into the darkness of his room. What  _was_  this? This beast that clawed at the inside of his chest? He didn't know but it was clear that it could breathe fire. He fell back on his bed, glaring angry, bewildered daggers at the ceiling and wondered if he was actually going mad.

…

John cleaned up the shattered mug (not at all convinced that it was an experiment) and finally settled into his chair with a cuppa to calm his nerves. He could still see that look on Sherlock's face: desperate, confused, and altogether wrong and it burned into him like a hot iron. It was his fault after all; he shouldn't have left him alone. It was too soon.

The date hadn't really gone according to plan anyway. He had been worried sick the entire time and Sarah had noticed. Of course, it wasn't hard to; she had stopped him midsentence to ask if he was alright.

"I'm fine," he'd said with what he'd hoped was a reassuring smile.

She'd placed her hand comfortingly over his and for whatever reason, he had almost jerked it back. "All you've done this evening is talk about Sherlock," her tone was gentle, not accusatory but John felt guilty all the same, "If you're that worried about him, you should go home."

He hadn't told her any details about what exactly had happened to his flatmate, just that he had endured a traumatic experience and was emotionally unstable. John shook his head apologetically and told her he would be fine. They had finished dessert in relative silence before parting ways amicably at the door.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed into the empty sitting room. He had let down two people in one night. Way to go, Watson.

He sat for a while longer, considered turning on the television a few times but never reached for the remote. After one o'clock, he decided that he may as well go to bed and on the way to the sink, he felt his leg twinge. He needed to see Sherlock before he slept, just to make sure that he was alright.

Stopping outside the detective's door, he fidgeted only a bit before calling softly, "Sherlock?" There was no response. After a moment's deliberation, he opened the door just a crack, and then a bit more until he could see Sherlock sprawled out on the bed.

He was on his back, his face turned towards John and his long neck exposed, thanks to the long v-neck of his shirt. The moonlight that filtered in through the cracks in the curtains illuminated the elegant lines of his face. He looked softer, peaceful, his lips parted just slightly and his hair splayed out behind him like a dark halo. An angel, that's how he looked.

John realized that he hadn't been breathing and drew air in slowly, stutteringly. He felt compelled to move into the room, to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, to brush his fingers along those cheekbones. He wanted to…he simply  _wanted_.

He staggered back, out of the room and pulled the door shut. His heart was hammering and he felt terrible, disgusted with himself. To even think about…after all that he'd been through… how could he? Guilt weighed down his chest like a ton of lead and churned gales in his stomach. Sherlock was innocent, lying there unassuming and open and John could've completely taken advantage. But he wouldn't have, would he?

"No…no," he whispered aloud. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting him, ever, which made him determined to never have those thoughts again. In the morning, he would return to friend, caretaker, and whatever else he had become during these weeks. It was crucial.


	10. Remembering

Abby was gazing out her office window, mug of coffee in hand, when she saw a familiar figure round the corner. She watched attentively as Sherlock Holmes approached with John Watson (whom she had only met once) and confessed herself a bit surprised. It wasn't the fact that Sherlock was with John, no, they seemed to go together like bread and jam; it was the fact that they were, indeed, holding hands. She squinted and leaned forward for a better look and her eyes had not betrayed her. Their fingers were clearly entwined and they both seemed so comfortable with it that they truly looked like a couple.  
Neither seemed to notice the glances they received from passers-by and when they stopped outside Abby's building, their hands remained joined as they spoke briefly. They both laughed and when they parted, there was a lingering brush of fingers. John turned back for a moment to watch Sherlock enter the building before hailing a cab.  
With all of the casualness she could muster, Abby returned to her designated chair, picked up her notes and pretended to be hard at work when Sherlock entered the room. "Afternoon," she greeted cheerily, "Been well?"  
Sherlock's brows furrowed slightly and shrugged off the question with, "As well as to be expected, I would imagine." There was a certain bite to his words that very much suggested that something had changed.  
He removed his coat and scarf, hanging them up, before taking a seat on her couch, as per usual. He never looked completely comfortable there, which she knew was only natural for someone like Sherlock: incapable of expressing suppressed unstable emotions, sociopathic tendencies, addictive personality, genius IQ, reluctance to trust any member of the human race...aside from John. This was truly interesting. And also one of the main points she hoped to tackle with her hypnotherapy tactic.

She scribbled down a few more questions and raised her eyes to see that Sherlock had moved to the window. His face remained impassive but the line of his shoulders and the slight fidgeting of his hands suggested that he was nervous.

"You still don't believe in hypnotism?"

"I believe it can be done but who's to say that I'd make a good candidate?" She raised her eyebrows. "Yes, I researched it."

"Actually," she began, " _You_ make you a good candidate."

"So you're saying it's basically all in my head."

"Of course it's in your head. That's the whole point! If you decide to be hypnotized, you'll be hypnotized. Someone like you could easily resist it with sheer brainpower and force of will. You just have to let it happen."

Sherlock sighed, his hands sliding into his hair and tousling it vigorously (a habit that Abby had noticed he displayed before when frustrated or out of his depth) before landing back on the couch, defeated. "Fine," he grumbled, "get on with it, then."

She allowed herself a small triumphant grin before instructing him to lie down and make himself comfortable. He shifted around for a good thirty seconds before finally settling and scrunching his eyes shut expectantly.

"Now," she said, leaning towards him and speaking softly, "I want you to relax…"

"Are you doing it?"

"I'm trying to."

"Have you done it?"

"Sherlock, you can't talk. Just relax yourself. Completely."

His eyelids eventually smoothed, along with the aggravated frown between his brows. Abby smiled, took a deep breath, and began.

…

Sherlock grabbed his things tore out of the building before Abby could stop him. His heart was pounding in his ears as he stumbled out onto the pavement, quickly ducking into an ally in case Mycroft was watching. He always seemed to be watching. Furiously wiping at the tears that he didn't know he had shed, he escaped back to Baker Street and ended up backtracking twice because, God, he couldn't think with all of the damn memories that threatened to burst his head open.

The key was soon jammed in the lock and he was bounding up the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste to get to his flat. He slammed the door behind him, his eyes frantically scanning the room but John wasn't there. Of course not, he was at work this time of day. With a shuddering breath, he propelled himself toward the mantle and to his skull. His hands trembled as he reached into the eye socket and plucked out a small glass phial filled with clear liquid. Morphine. He'd saved it and put it off and away for safe keeping; for a time like this when he'd do anything to escape his own mind.

He snatched the case which contained his needle from behind the philosophy book and his tourniquet from the bottom drawer of his dresser. Only just remembering to lock the door, he sat on the edge of his bed with his thoughts screaming and his hands shaking as he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and tied the tube tight. He drew the drug up into the needle and his eyes were already dilated, ready.

A vague thought that John would disapprove of this brought him a flickering moment of clarity. He turned the needle over in his fingers, hesitating but then it was back. An all too vivid recollection of large hands, over his mouth, on his body, holding him down, and he was too small, too young to stop him and then the needle was in his arm, the plunger was down and the drugs were in his veins. Slowly, slowly, the memories began to dissipate to something far away, something manageable, and then he couldn't bring himself to think of anything.

…

Sherlock had reached a state of moderate lucidity by the time he heard the front door open and John's familiar footsteps. He could easily trace his movement around the flat: a stop by the door to hang up his coat, a few steps into the sitting room, pause, steps to the kitchen, pause;  _'He's wondering where I am'_.

He was grateful for having had the foresight to lock the door first; he couldn't let John see him yet. Being a medical man, it wouldn't take him long at all to notice that Sherlock was still tweaked. That and the fact that he remembered everything he had told Abby about John and that all of it was absolutely, one hundred percent true. A slight heat crept into his cheeks and ears,  _'John is wonderful. John cares about me and I can't understand why. He wastes his time on damaged goods, someone that can't even begin to tell him how broken he truly is. Someone who, for the first time in his life, cares about someone in a way that he can only begin to comprehend. He's too good for me. I need him, inexorably. I want him even more.'_

He lifted his hands, like dead weight still, and covered his face, suffocating the warmth with their coldness.  _'Would John leave if he could see me now? See what I've done to repay him for all of his kindness? He would be disgusted._ I'm _disgusted.'_

"Sherlock?" he jumped a little, hearing John's approaching voice and the accompanying knock at his bedroom door. Sherlock stilled himself completely and waited. John tried the knob on the second call of his name, "Sherlock, you in here?"

The man in question stirred around in his bedclothes for a minute before offering a muffled, "Hmm?"

Silence for a moment and then, "Were you asleep?" He sounded surprised, concerned.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I  _was_."

"Right, sorry," pause, a shuffle of some sort, "You're alright though?"

"Fine, just tired. Today was…trying."

"Have you eaten yet?"

"Yes, earlier," if 'earlier' could be considered yesterday evening, then Sherlock was telling the truth.

"Okay, well, I'll…leave you to it, then. Night."

"Goodnight."

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, his heart beating fast. Avoiding John was going to be a difficult task indeed.


	11. Helping

It was a slow day. A slow and rather uneventful day. In fact, it had been a rather slow, uneventful three weeks.

John sighed, tapping his pen and looked at the digital clock on his desk. No appointments for the rest of the day and he had only seen to a few walk-ins. Once again, his idle mind wandered back to Sherlock. His brows creased with worry, more so than usual for Sherlock had truly not been himself lately.

He spoke less and spent more and more time in his room or locking himself in the kitchen. At first, John had figured that he was feeling a bit touchy and embarrassed about the whole "mug incident" but as time went on, he began to suspect that the real cause ran much deeper.

Sherlock never spoke of his therapy sessions. John couldn't blame him but he did wonder if something had happened there to clam him up so much and shuddered to think what could have possibly silenced Sherlock Holmes.

Suddenly, and rather serendipitously, John's phone rang –not his office phone, his mobile- and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly fumbled it out of his pocket and answered with a tense, "Hello?"

"Hello, Dr. Watson?" a familiar female voice inquired.

"Speaking."

"This is Sherlock's psychiatrist, Dr. Donnelly."

"Yes, hello," John replied, cold anxiousness unfurling in his stomach, "Is something wrong?"

"Well, I was hoping you could tell me," said Abby, sounding to John a bit anxious herself.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

There was a pause and then, "You mean, you don't know? He's so close to you, I thought he would…this is upsetting."

"Know what?" John was beginning to feel like someone was playing a horrible joke on him.

"Sherlock hasn't been coming to his scheduled appointments for three weeks now."

John's mouth dropped open and Abby might have said something else but it was entirely lost on John. Three weeks? He had dropped him off in front of the building every day! He could picture it in his head now: John disappearing from view and Sherlock casually making his way back to Baker Street.

"Dr. Watson?" Doctor Donnelly was saying and John was trying very hard to choose between confusion and anger.

"I'm here, I just… I don't understand. Why would he? I mean, I know he didn't like it but why now? Did something happen?"

"I think it was my fault," she said quietly, her voice filled with disappointment, "I did something rash because I thought it would help, I really did…but I fear it's done more harm than good."

Anger seized hold of John for the moment. Anger at Abby. "What. What did you do?"

"I used a technique," her voice was thin and uncertain, "It's rarely used but he was struggling so hard with his past…I could see it and I wanted to help but," she took a breath to regroup, "I hypnotized him."

John blinked, "What?"

"I used hypnosis to get at the repressed memories of his childhood. It seemed like the only way at the time. I shouldn't have…and he took it badly. When he panicked, I snapped him out of it. He was shaking and I tried to help him but he was crying and angry and he pushed me away and ran.

"When he didn't come back the next week, I supposed I deserved it. He was still upset. The second week, I began to worry and said I'd give him one more chance. This was it and I had to contact you because he hasn't answered his phone all day."

John was still processing this information. This amount of rage took some time to fully mount and he wasn't sure where to direct it. He was angry at himself for making Sherlock see a psychiatrist in the first place. He was angry at Abby for putting him through this and he was angry at Sherlock for not saying something.

"I'm so sorry," she was still saying, "I'm sorry for all of this. I feel horrible about it."

"Why'd you have to do that to him?" John finally exploded, having to physically rise from his desk, "You're supposed to help people, not torture them!"

Deep down, he knew that she did not deserve this but all he could picture was what she had described: Sherlock, shaking, traumatized, utterly alone, and worse than ever. Worse because of her.  _She_  made him this way. Her fault. She hurt him.

"I'm sorry!" she cried, her voice quavering, "I thought I was helping him! It's clear to me now what he really needs, John. It became clear that very day. He needs you, only you, to look after him. He cares so much about you."

John's temper dampened momentarily in light of this statement and he took a steadying breath before answering her.

"Thank you for calling  _Miss_ Donnelly," John sniped and abruptly ended the call. He snatched up his coat and hollered at Sarah that he had to run, emergency. He heard her call after him but he was already out the front door.

…

Sherlock had already begun to sweat. He had found his supply of liquid morphine completely drained that morning. He didn't really remember drinking it but he must have done. There was another phial, wasn't there? There had to be just enough to inject. Just enough to get him though the day and he'd steal some more tomorrow.

He staggered into the sitting room, his heart beating fast and loud in his ears. With a trembling hand, he reached into the eye socket of the skull and felt around, stretched his long fingers until-yes! He pulled it through roughly and nearly knocked the skull from the mantle. With the little bottle held tight in his clammy palm, he turned around.

And saw John.

"Sherlock."

"John…I" his mouth hung open for a minute, "You're at work. This time of day. You're at work."

"Got a call from Abby," John replied, his voice deathly calm and more frightening than a shout.

Sherlock swallowed and searched for something to say to get him out of this. John held his ground, his dark blue gaze boring into him. He knew.

Of course he knew. He could spot it a mile off. How long had he been at it now? Three weeks? And how much? His sleeve was rolled up to the elbow. With disdain, he saw several fresh track marks marring the pale skin. He had his hand around Sherlock's wrist before he knew it.

"How long?"

Sherlock couldn't deny it now. "Since I stopped seeing Abby."

"How often?"

"Not often enough."

" _How often?_ " John growled, his grip on Sherlock tightening.

"Constantly."

John's body vibrated with silent rage and he noticed Sherlock's other fist closed tight around something. "Give it to me."

Sherlock didn't respond, only stood his ground and stared at John with wild eyes. "Give it. To me," John demanded once again and Sherlock tried to run.

He had barely managed to wrench his wrist away before John had him around the middle and forced him easily to the ground. Sherlock fought and cursed as John sat on him, constricting his left arm and leaving only the right to fight and guard his drug. John snatched his hand and pried open his fingers as Sherlock writhed angrily beneath him, trying frantically to throw him off.

John had it. He was off Sherlock in a flash and sprinted to the kitchen sink. Sherlock chased him, his head feeling terribly sideways. "John! Don't you dare!"

"You'll thank me later." He raised up his hand and Sherlock knew what he was going to do. He reached for him but John held his hand high and smashed the phial into the sink.

Anger surged up so powerfully within him that it took the sting in his hand to realize that he had struck John so hard he had landed on the floor. The rage melted away and left him gaping, floundering for words. "John. I…God. John." He stumbled forward and reached down to him, trying to help him up. John simply held up his hand in silence and rose to his feet.

He stared at Sherlock with such hurt and resolution that it made Sherlock's heart ache.

"Enough, Sherlock. Enough."

"John-

"Shut up. You're better than this. We both know it." There was silence for a few long moments that hung thickly in the air like a third body before John finally spoke again. "We'll fix this, together. Struggle all you like but I'm not going to give up on you. I never have and I never will."

Those were the last words Sherlock knew before he descended rapidly into Hell.

 


	12. Wrecking

John was in the kitchen when Sherlock screamed himself awake. He dropped the sugar spoon and ran for Sherlock's bedroom. He was lying in bed, wide-eyed and dripping with sweat. His shaking hands had wound themselves tightly into his own hair and he continued to wail as if someone were burning him.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice loud and firm as he approached the bed. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, his eyes dilated and wild.

He sat down on the bed, leaning over him and saying his name again. Sherlock jolted, his eyes flitting over John feverishly before he reached out and grabbed John's arms tightly.

"John!" he yelled, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "You have to help me, please John. John…I can't."

"You're fine," John soothed, his hands rising to rub reassuringly at Sherlock's outstretched arms.

"I can't breathe. There's no air in this room John! It's so hot," he talked quickly, words jumbling as they ran over themselves.  
"I'll open the window." John said and gently extricated himself from Sherlock's grasp.

"No! John, you can't leave. I'm dying. Please, you can't!"

"I'm not leaving." He crossed the room to open the window a crack and locked it again.

Sherlock tried to sit up, his arms trembling under his weight and he tipped dangerously to the side. John came to push him back down but Sherlock fought with all he had left. He put a hand on his nightstand and slung his leg over the bed. The second he rose, he fell forward, John only just managing to grab him before he hit the floor.

Sherlock growled angrily and beat at him with his fists. He nearly managed to escape but John threw his arms round his waist and held him in a vice like grip. Sherlock struggled fruitlessly until John easily knocked him off balance and sent them both falling back onto the bed. John held him there, speaking quiet, calming things until Sherlock struggled himself into exhaustion.

John got slowly back to his feet and fetched a bowl of cool water and a cloth. He pulled in a chair from the kitchen and sat beside Sherlock's bed, wiping the sweat from his face. He muttered to himself, waking a few times before finally slipping back into oblivion.

…

The cycle kept repeating. Sherlock had been quiet for an hour now and a sense of foreboding was hanging in the air. If Sherlock had really done as much morphine as he said he had then it would only get worse from here. It was like the flu. It started slow, reached its peak, and then broke.

It had to be coming soon. The first few times Sherlock had woken up, he had tried to leave the flat. At least now he knew that he wasn't hiding the drug anywhere else in the house. An addict would go to any lengths to get it just to get the pain to stop. Now he couldn't move from the bed and he screamed continuously until the wave was over.

John sighed and closed his eyes, taking advantage of these rare moments of peace. That was until a quiet knock at the door. He almost didn't answer it. Really. But John was John and as soon as he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice drifting through, he didn't have the heart to ignore her.

"Come in. Quietly," John said and Mrs. Hudson nodded, slipping past him.

"How is Sherlock doing?" she whispered, her face a mask of worry.

"Not well. He'll get through it alright, don't worry. It will just take some time."

Mrs. Hudson smiled, touching his shoulder affectionately. "You look exhausted, love. Can I fix you something to eat?"

John started to say something like "You don't have to," but she was already on her way to the kitchen. John shook his head and eased himself down into his chair. He let his head tip back and listened to his landlady puttering around quietly. In fact, he was nearly lulled to sleep before the screaming started again.

John nearly vaulted from his chair as Sherlock's frantic cries for help rang out into the flat. Mrs. Hudson and froze where she stood with her hand over her mouth.

"You should go," John said as brushed past her.

"I can help," she said, grabbing his elbow, "Anything you need at all."

"Thanks but it's best you go-

"JOHN!"

"Now. Please."  
The landlady was jolted by Sherlock's panicked cry and simply nodded as she made her way out the door. Sherlock lay flat on his back, his eyes wide as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His legs and his arms had begun to shake out of control and so violently that he rattled the bed.

John was at his side in an instant, stroking the curls back from his damp forehead. "I'm here, Sherlock," his voice was strong but he was horror-stricken at this new development. He had never personally witnessed an attack this bad and all he could do was comfort him.

"I can't stop them, John, I can't!" he yelled, "Oh God. John, I'm going to die!"

"No you won't. Not while I'm here."

Sherlock sprung forward suddenly, wrapping his trembling arms around his middle and groaning. "Everything hurts! DO SOMETHING."

His weight tilted in John's direction and John wrapped his arms around his shuddering frame, pulling him close against his chest. "It's alright. Everything's alright." He was reassuring himself as much as he was Sherlock, his own heart threatening to pound out of his chest.

"He'll find me here," Sherlock said and his voice was distant, as if he were somewhere else entirely.

"Who will?" John asked, though he already had a feeling of who Sherlock was referring to.

"David, David. David will. He always does."

John froze and Sherlock only convulsed harder in his arms, his fingers curling themselves tightly in his shirt. "Who is David?"

Sherlock made a wounded sound as if he had been struck. "Please, no," he begged, muttering it under his breath.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me? Do you know where you are?" John was growing more frantic by the second and he drew Sherlock back by the shoulders to get a look in his eyes.

Some recognition struck inside Sherlock and John's name escaped his lips in a broken whisper before tears began to brim in his eyes. John's heart dropped as the other man collapsed back against his chest, his shoulders shaking.

John tightened his hold around him. "Who hurt you, Sherlock? Who is David?"

"My stepfather." His voice was filled with such rage and pain that John felt his own heart ache. The words began to bubble out of Sherlock as if he had been wanting to say them his entire life.

"He came to find me after my mother had gone to bed. I'd hide, John, but he'd always find me and he'd-he'd…and I couldn't tell anyone. He held me down and he said if I told that he'd hurt my mother. And Mycroft was gone. Mycroft abandoned me to that- and I couldn't do anything and I hated him, John! I hate him, I hate them both! He's dead and I still hate him!"

His last words came out as sobs and John couldn't do anything but watch him break. It was like witnessing a disaster but there was nothing he could do to stop it, like an explosion, like a train wreck. John was so filled with anger and hatred and protectiveness and an all consuming, unequivocal love that all he could do was hold onto Sherlock, his own tears burning their way down his face.

Sherlock's sobs subsided to gasps and shudders and he finally went limp and heavy in John's arms. Not bothering to let go and certainly not wanting to, John laid them both down on the bed and held the sleeping man tightly in his arms. It was there in the dark, as he lay rubbing soothing circles onto his flatmate's back, that John made the resolution to never let anyone hurt Sherlock again.


	13. Loving

After his outburst, Sherlock slept for twelve hours straight. John held him quietly for as long as he could, his fingers toying gently with Sherlock’s curls. When he did have to rise, he carefully extracted himself from the other man and crept out. Sherlock stirred but didn’t wake.

            John fixed himself a cup of coffee and settled into his chair to watch the sun rise with sore eyes. An hour or so passed and John may have dozed because he was startled into alertness at the sound of Sherlock’s door creaking open. He listened intently and heard his flatmate stagger to the bathroom and shut the door. All was silent for a moment before the lurch of old pipes and the spray of water told him the shower was on.

            He waited anxiously. Sherlock could not be ready for such and exertion after days of stillness. John listened and still could only hear the sound of running water. He began to relax a fraction until he heard a shout and a loud “thud”. John was out of his chair like it had been on fire and was pounding on the bathroom door.

            “Sherlock!”

            A muffled groan and something like “don’t”.

            John turned the knob, finding it unlocked and barreled into the room. Sherlock was in the process of pulling himself up from the bottom of the tub and attempting to cover himself with the shower curtain. John’s legs carried him forward of their own volition and he soon found himself gently easing Sherlock back to a seated position in the tub.

            “Too weak for a shower,” John mumbled under his breath.

            “I just fell, it’s fine,” Sherlock retorted, pushing feebly at John’s arms.

            John wasted no time in plugging the drain and filling the tub with warm water. Sherlock complained obstinately, color rising to his deathly pale cheeks.

            John simply gathered the soap and rag, smiling warmly. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.”

            Sherlock’s mouth opened but he couldn’t think of a thing else to say. So he didn’t. John lathered up the rag and proceeded to wash him with upmost care, not saying a word. Gradually, Sherlock began to relax, his eyes slipping shut as John tended to him gently. He focused on the other man’s hands moving over his body, clinical efficiency mingled with overwhelming affection, and Sherlock wasn’t scared.

            John halted suddenly, only just realizing the significance of the situation. “Christ. I didn’t even ask. Are you oaky? With this? Me?”

            Sherlock simply hummed his approval, a faint smile touching his lips. Something very warm unfurled in John’s chest. The privilege of touching Sherlock, knowing the trust that it implied, was nothing short of overpowering. John let out a stuttering breath before saying, “Ready for your hair?”

            Eyes still closed, Sherlock wallowed himself to shift lower into the tub until he could submerge his hair. Then, John’s fingers were back, rubbing circles into his scalp and that was good. _He_ was good and Sherlock could feel it seep into him, melting the ice inside. That niggling thought returned, the one that said “you don’t deserve this,” but for once, Sherlock managed to push it away and enjoy himself. Just one moment of bliss to bring back his sanity, if only for a while.

            John carefully helped him out of the tub and handed him a towel.

            “You take care of this and I’ll get you some fresh sheets, yeah?”

            Sherlock stared at him for a moment, clutching the towel to his chest and tried desperately to process the abundance of feelings welling up inside him. He finally nodded and watched John go before getting himself dry. He walked in on a freshly made bed and a glass of cool water on his nightstand. He wondered how one person could be nearly entirely comprised of kind gestures. He sat down with thoughts stumbling about his sluggish mind and drank half the water before weariness finally stole over him once more.

 

…

 

            When Sherlock woke in the early hours of the morning, John was in the chair next to him, arms folded and chin sunk to his chest.

            “John,” Sherlock called over the light snoring. He snapped to immediately, the military having fine-tuned his emergency response.

            “What do you need?” he asked, attempting to scrub the sleep from his face.

            Sherlock merely scooted back a few inches and lifted the covers in a wordless gesture. Without question, John rose from his chair and slid in beside him. Draping a protective arm over Sherlock’s waist, John quickly returned to sleep.

            Sherlock remained awake, staring silently at John’s face, faintly moonlit through the crack in the curtains. Only when the snoring returned did Sherlock, breathing as quietly as possible, reach out to trail a fingertip softly over John’s right cheek. It came to rest as lightly as a butterfly on John’s lips before he slowly retracted his hand. He let out a sigh he’d been holding and slowly drifted back to sleep.

 

…

 

            In the morning, John fixed them a simple breakfast, of which Sherlock ate all he was given (which would have been an accomplishment even on a normal day) and to John’s great surprise, agreed to go on a walk after very minimal cajoling.

            It was a brisk day, the sun just peeking out from behind the clouds as they began their walk. Sherlock promptly removed his glove to lace his fingers with John’s as he had become wont to do. John chose not to think about this, along with all of the confusing emotions he was trying hard to suppress.

            They made their way to Reagent’s Park and settled for people watching- or more like people analyzing- on a bench. Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself, like stretching out his legs after a long sleep. His keen eyes scanned the fare and he proceeded to make fantastic, rapid-fire deductions of everyone who happened to pass by and every now and again, he’d flash John that smile, that slightly feral gleam that bespoke the thrill of the chase. John steadfastly chose not to acknowledge the fluttering it produced in his stomach.

            Instead, he carried on as normal, complimenting and teasing in his John-like fashion, all the while keeping a firmer grip on the other man’s hand. A couple of people looked their way, a pair of middle-aged women in jogging clothes whispering to each other as they passed. John couldn’t help but wish it was s simple as they imagined: a young male couple out enjoying the park. And in another way, he wouldn’t give up the kind of bonding they had shared for the easy road. Those damned feelings again. He pushed them back.

 

…

 

            Life gradually began to resume after that day, regaining little normalities here and there until Sherlock became something closer to himself than he’d been in years. It was John who was bringing him back. He couldn’t deny that anymore.

            He couldn’t deny the fact that he spent most of his time staring at John while he wasn’t watching and thinking about him for the rest of the time. His thoughts had begun the transition from darkness into light and warmth, like that which radiated from his beacon of goodness. He wanted John to know but he was terrified. If John left him now, Sherlock knew he would shatter.

            He would have to tell him, he decided for the fifth time that week. He stood in his room, looking in the mirror and frantically trying to sum up an immense wealth of emotions into clear, concise words.

            “John,” he began and cleared his throat, “John.” Good progress. “It has come to my attention…” Well that didn’t sound right. “We’ve known each other for a while now…” Now it was starting to sound like a marriage proposal. He shook his head and tried again. “I’ve been thinking about it and I want you to know that I-…” 

            “Sherlock! I’m back,” John called as he shut the front door.

            Nerves stirred his heart into a panic. It was now or never. Sherlock slowly climbed the stairs to John’s room, carefully missing the one that squeaked, until he stood just outside the cracked door. He rapped lightly on the wood, the pressure swinging the door open another inch. Jon’s head snapped up from the task of removing his shoes and locked eyes with Sherlock.

            “Oh, hey,” he smiled curiously, tugging off the remaining shoe. He quirked his eyebrow when Sherlock didn’t respond and tilted his head so that he could see him more clearly through the door.

            “Come in, then. Not like you to be shy.”

            Sherlock straightened his shoulders and attempted to gather his resolve before stepping into the room. He stopped short in front of John. Somewhere between his room and John’s all of those stiff, calculated words became a jumbled up mess and left Sherlock standing there stupidly with his mouth forming invisible words. He stopped and swallowed the knot in his throat.

            “John,” he tried, “It has come to- You are-…I have to-…Sod it. I love you.”

            John’s face mirrored his own expression of shock at the words he had unleashed into the air. They hung like echoes in the silence as John blinked owlishly up at him.

            “You can’t…” John’s voice broke at the end. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried again, “You don’t really mean that.”

            “But I do.”

            “You’re confused, Sherlock. You’ve just been through a horrible ordeal and your emotions are everywhere.” His voice was sturdy but he was blinking a bit too fast. “What you feel is gratitude. That’s all.”

            Sherlock was adamantly shaking his head. “No, John. I know what gratitude is. I’m grateful to Mrs. Hudson for letting us this place and bringing us food. I’m grateful to Mike Stamford for introducing us and sometimes I’m even grateful for Lestrade. But this, John, I know it’s love. It’s the strongest thing I’ve ever felt.”

            Everything inside Sherlock seemed to be shaking with relief. He couldn’t stop now. John had lowered his gaze so Sherlock dropped to his knees, angling his head so he could see John’s eyes as he spoke.”

            “You’re good, John. You’re so good and I’m not but when I’m with you, I feel like I could be.” He took a breath, felt the heat in his face and the rapid off-kilter beat of his heart. “You helped me when no one else could. You saved my life, John. Truly. And you keep on doing it. Everyday I draw breath, it’s because you’re saving me.”

            He was treading deep emotional water and John, damn it, had still not said anything. He began to feel foolish and hurt and more than anything, completely terror-stricken. All of these people telling him to share his feelings and here they were, about to lose him the only good thing he had.

            Slowly, he reached out, placing a hand on John’s ankle, feeling the heat of his skin trough his jeans.

            “Do you know why I like to hold your hand?” he asked, his voice just a breath, “It’s because you’re warm.”

            A soft gasp called his attention back to John’s face. His dark eyes glimmered with unshed tears, his mouth caught somewhere between a grimace and a smile. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something like “don’t cry” but John reached out to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands. He leaned forward and pressed a feather-light kiss to his forehead, then to his cheek and the tip of his nose. Sherlock sighed, a soft smile curving his lips as he gently pressed his face into John’s, feeling and breathing his warmth.

            “I love you, I love you,” John repeated over and over again, running his hands over his face, his neck, into his hair, holding him close. Sherlock’s arms rose to wrap tightly around his middle, his face hovering just in front of John’s. He leaned in, eager to close the gap between them but John stopped him with fingers against his lips.

            “You don’t have to,” he said gently, “I don’t expect you to if you’re not ready.”

            Sherlock simply gazed at him with a smile in his eyes and pressed his lips to John’s fingertips before taking the hand and easing it away. He slid his own fingers into the empty spaces between John’s and kissed him. Just a soft, warm pressure, like a reassurance. John’s mouth went pliant under his and he made a small sound as Sherlock’s lips moved slowly against his own.

            When Sherlock pulled back, his eyes searched John’s for a brief moment before a smile bloomed across his face. John beamed, brimming over with happiness. Sherlock buried his nose into the juncture of John’s neck and shoulder and breathed in, his grip around the other man tightening.

            “How about Chinese?” he mumbled into his shirt.

            John laughed. 


	14. Beginning

            They did have Chinese; take away. They also started a nice fire and watched telly. Well, not so much watched as vaguely acknowledged while being secretly enraptured with each other. Sherlock stared at John while he wasn’t looking and vice versa, trying to feel one another out, to discover what would be okay.

            Sherlock finally reached the decision that he had to make a move, to show John that it was okay to touch. He traversed the gap of bare couch that separated them and leaned over John, one hand on the armrest and the other on the backrest, his knees nudging against John’s thighs as he dove in to capture his mouth. John grunted in surprise and tentatively reached a hand up to Sherlock’s waist. When that went well, his other landed on the smooth slope of his neck, stroking his thumb gently over the rapidly fluttering pulse point as he gently opened his lips against Sherlock’s.

            Cautiously, John’s tongue darted out to trace the plump bottom lip pressing against his own. Sherlock gasped softly, and pressed harder into the kiss before pulling back, his heart racing wildly and his mind going a mile a minute.

            “John- I…” Sherlock began, not really knowing what he was going to say. John stopped him with a warm smile and a “Shh,” before placing a small, chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips and nudging at his shoulders to make him sit. Sherlock did and John pulled him into his side so that Sherlock’s head rested on John’s shoulder and soon, his fingers wound themselves into those curly locks with a happy sigh. Sherlock relaxed.

 

…

            Sherlock snapped awake to the sound of his name being called. He felt hands on his upper arms and gave a violent start before sense returned and he realized they were John’s.

            “You were sort of yelling and thrashing. I wanted to wake you up before it got too bad.” He couldn’t see John but he could feel his breath touching his face which was slick with a sheen of sweat.

            “It wasn’t the drugs this time, was it?” John asked tentatively, just above a whisper.

            Sherlock began to shiver and shook his head, knowing John would feel the motion. His nightmare flashed before him; remembered laughter and the ghost of hands holding him down.

            “Do you want to talk?” John offered.

            “No. Not now, I can’t…”

            “It’s alright,” John said quietly, one of his thumbs stroking Sherlock’s arm in reassurance. “I know how you feel.”

            “No you don’t!” Sherlock snapped, surprising himself with the ferocity of his words. There was a moment of silence in which Sherlock regretted shouting before John broke it with:

            “In the army, there was a time when- …I was held captive for four days.”

            Sherlock blinked into the darkness in the general direction of John’s voice. Well he hadn’t expected this at all.

            “There were nine men,” John continued, his voice soft but steady, “They hardly understood any English. They ambushed me and took me to their shack- horribly dusty, very hot. Each took turns guarding the perimeter and torturing me.”

            John paused and took a breath. He hadn’t recounted this to anyone, not the specifics anyway. Sherlock stayed very quiet and waited.

            “They each liked different methods. You know, some of them just beat me and yelled at me but there were three men in particular who…” he licked his lips, breathing out through his nose, “Well. They were more inclined to molestation. Anyway, I won’t go into detail but I- Well.

            My men found me eventually. Course they did, furious. They took out my bullies pretty quick. They were obviously rogues; relatively untrained and verbally incapable of applying interrogation techniques. Just a group of them who got their kicks from torturing English boys.

            So yeah, it’s nowhere near the level of what happened to you but I just felt you should know that I really do understand…that is I sympathize with you. And if I could, I would have taken it for you. So you didn’t have to,” he cleared his throat, face flushing, “Sorry, I’m rubbish at these big speeches.”

            He ended with a self-deprecating chuckle which came out more ragged than he intended and was completely thrown off guard when Sherlock’s arms wound tightly around his neck and he was pulled down.

            “Thank you,” Sherlock breathed as he held John close. He meant thank you for sharing, thank you for understanding, thank you for making it out alive. Everything that needed to be said.

            John lay back down beside him and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s back, pulling him in until he could press his lips to his face. He kissed his cheek, the side of his nose, his chin, before landing directly on soft, open lips. He sighed contentedly as Sherlock gently returned the kiss and they lay twined together until drowsiness crept over them again.

 

…

 

            John woke up first that morning. He skillfully disentangled himself from Sherlock’s, long, entrapping limbs without waking him and made his way for the shower. When he walked back in, toweling his hair dry, Sherlock was still asleep. John smiled fondly and was about to leave when he heart Sherlock’s phone chime from the nightstand.

            He glanced at Sherlock. He hadn’t moved an inch. John fidgeted for a moment, considering before finally snatching it up and keying in the password they had decided upon for both of their devices (for convenience). It showed one new message from an unknown number. John wasn’t really a snoop. He wasn’t but these circumstances were different. It wasn’t snooping if you were just trying to protect someone, right? He held his breath as he tapped open the message. And then his heart sank like a stone.

 

            _It’s not over yet, Sherlock, our little problem. No, this isn’t the final problem._

_-M._

John stared at the screen clutched so tightly in his hand, his knuckles bone-white. At some point, a tremor had started up his spine and he was breathing so loudly that he had to leave the room. He snatched up his own phone and retreated to the hallway where he typed in the unknown number. Fingers shaking with rage, John sent Moriarty a very clear message.

 

            _You’re right. This isn’t over. It won’t be over until you pay for what you’ve done._

 

There was a moment of silence during which John thought his head might just explode before his phone vibrated in his palm.

 

            _Johnny-boy! How’s the patient?_

 

John could practically feel the manic delight radiating off the screen.

 

_Leave Sherlock alone._

_You know I can’t do that._

_Leave him alone or I will find you._

_Any bruise you put on my skin will go double for Sherlock._

_I can think of at least a dozen ways to kill you without leaving a mark._

_You’re fun, John._

_Then talk to me. Torture me. Give Sherlock time to heal._

_You’re willing to trade places with him?_

_In a heartbeat._

_Interesting._

_Is that an agreement?_

_For now._

            John slumped down against the wall, letting himself slide to the floor. He ran his hands through his hair as he took a steadying breath, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he might as well have made a pact with the devil. A trade. Sherlock’s soul for his own.

            And then there was a knock at the door. John jumped and rose to his feet, listening. Another knock. Going quietly to his desk drawer, John pulled out his gun before making his way to the door. With a deep breath, John swung open the door, flicked off the safety…and stopped.

            “Morning,” said Lestrade, looking a bit out of place and worse for wear, “Mrs. Hudson sent me up.”

            “Oh. Oh, yeah, of course,” John replied, quickly replacing the safety and shoving the gun into the waistband of his trousers, “Come in.”

            Lestrade nodded and stepped inside, glancing about briefly before sitting down in Sherlock’s chair as John hurried off to the kitchen with the purpose of making tea. “Tea in a moment,” he called over the sound of filling the kettle, “Sherlock shouldn’t sleep too much longer.”

            He was just in the process of pouring out their tea when he felt a warm hand slide around his waist. He started slightly, flushing to his ears when Sherlock’s lips pressed a warm kiss to the back of his neck in plain view. Heat shivered down his spine as Sherlock whispered a husky “good morning” into his ear.

            “Um,” said John, clearing his throat, “Lestrade’s here.”

            Sherlock froze against him, his eyes snapping up to meet those of none other than a rather mischievous detective inspector. He relaxed marginally, his thumb stroking over John’s stomach, forcefully refusing to be embarrassed in his own home. Lestrade grinned and looked away. John made an extra cup of tea for Sherlock and they both joined Lestrade in the sitting room.

            “What is it that you want?” Sherlock asked rather abruptly and John made a faint burbling noise in his tea.

            Lestrade blinked before assuming a sheepish expression, “Well. I know that you’ve, um. Well you haven’t been well and I should really be giving you more time…” Sherlock perked up instantly.

            “What is it? Murder? Theft? Organized crime ring? What?”

            “Well, it has to do with some strange symbols turning up in a museum…”

            “Yellow spray paint?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

            “N- Yeah. How’d you know?”

            “There are more at the bank. Just received an email this morning.”

 

            John watched as Sherlock came fully back to himself and for a moment, he forgot about the deal he had made. Of course, he would never forget when they were away from the safety of their home. He would be always armed, always vigilant, and always ready, no matter when Moriarty chose to strike. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

 

_Let the games begin._

And so they did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, it finally draws to a close. There will be an epilogue chapter to come which will pick up in series 2 and be NSFW-just a forewarning. Thank you so, very, very much to everyone who has stuck with me since the beginning and the new readers who have come along the way. Thank you for your support and I hope I haven’t let anyone down.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be very NSFW!

One year, four months, two days. If you asked, John could probably count down to the very second that Sherlock Holmes swept into his life in a flurry of coattails and deductions. He also remembers that ten months, two weeks, and six days ago was the first time he heard Sherlock say “I love you”.

                It’s been one case after another and Sherlock was soon referred to as the “famous detective”, and soon after, they became “Hat Man and Robin”. John was proud, and he was excited but under all of it, lurked the fear. The fear of Moriarty creeping closer and closer to the surface of these cases; the fear that he may not keep his promise. John was vigilant to the point of near paranoia when it came to Sherlock. Every phone call, every email set him on edge and he rarely even let the man out of his sight in the past few weeks. Sherlock thought he was being silly and over-protective. And then he became the “Reichenbach Hero” and he too began to feel a change in the air.

                When they finally threw the madman in jail after the Crown Jewels fiasco, John slowly began to relax. The evidence was all there. There was no way that any jury could find Moriarty innocent. There came a lag then, in the days leading up to the trial, in which John and Sherlock found themselves very much in each other’s company inside the flat to avoid the paparazzi.

                There have been touches, gentle passes of hands over faces and hips, warm, fleeting embraces. There have been kisses, scattered throughout the months, sometimes born of boredom and other times out of a deep and longing need. They were reassurances, saying “you’re loved” and “I’m here for you” with no words at all and it very nearly worked. Except for the times John got overheated and had to force himself to back off so as not to push Sherlock too far. Sherlock would give him an apologetic look and John would smile understandingly and proceed to his room to take care of things.

                And so it came as quite a surprise when, on a rainy day, Sherlock came in from the Yard, removed his shoes, his scarf and his coat and stood in front of John where he was sat in his favorite chair with a book. John didn’t look up until Sherlock spoke his name with such sound determination that all of his insides jumped at once. He saw him then, standing there, curls hanging in a wet disarray and cheeks slightly flushed from the surprisingly chilly day. John’s mouth went a little slack and neither said a word as Sherlock took the book from John’s hands and laid it on the table.

                And then Sherlock climbed into his lap, straddling John’s thighs with his own and making him squeak in shock. Sherlock silenced that sound with his mouth, quickly taking advantage of John’s parted lips with a purposeful tongue. When he pulled back to take a breath, John was left perfectly winded.

                “Sh- Sherlock…what?”

                “I’m ready, John,” came Sherlock’s steadfast reply, his eyes boring down relentlessly into John’s.

                John blinked, his heart already beginning to hammer in his chest, a thrill chasing through his body. “Wh- Are you sure? Sherlock, I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to- I mean if you never even wanted to-…” he was stumbling over himself badly.

                Sherlock stopped him short by taking John’s hand in his and placing the palm firmly over his own heart. “The only experiences I’ve had with this have been bad ones and since I obviously can’t delete them, I’d like to overwrite them. With you.”

                John was dumbfounded and he felt something hot spreading out under his skin. It suddenly struck him that the most romantic things ever said to him tended to come from Sherlock. It may have been Sherlock’s own brand of romance but it was romance none the less and John wouldn’t have it any other way. Then he realized that he was still staring quite dumbly and Sherlock might get the wrong idea. He silently took Sherlock’s other hand in his and returned the sweet gesture.

                “It will be my privilege,” he smiled.

                Sherlock smiled softly back at him and then halted, looking as if he didn’t know where to begin. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s narrow waist, feeling the heat of his skin under the damp fabric. Sherlock shivered. John tilted his head enough so that their lips brushed before claiming Sherlock’s mouth with a muffled sound of desire. Sherlock responded with a needy noise of his own, leaning down into John, his fingers curling in the fabric of his jumper.

                John wound his arms securely around Sherlock’s back, his hands sliding up to tangle in his sodden hair and tug him closer, his tongue brushing deep inside his mouth, tasting him. Sherlock positively melted against him and John couldn’t believe he was getting to do this at last. He released Sherlock’s mouth and used the hand in his hair to guide his head to the side so he could lay an open kiss to the soft skin behind his ear. Sherlock actually shuddered in his arms as John made his way slowly down that elegant neck, worshipping every inch of skin he could reach.

                He tongued those teasing freckles and nipped softly at his pulse, racing fast under pristine skin. A low, guttural sound escaped Sherlock as he let his head fall back, offering himself up to John in a way that made the army doctor’s head spin. John’s hands were everywhere, feeling and grabbing and stroking but Sherlock’s stayed very much in the same place, knotted in John’s jumper. John suddenly realized this and, reluctantly, stopped attacking Sherlock’s throat.

                “What’s wrong?” John asked, panting hard against Sherlock.

                “I-…” Sherlock was breathless and red in the face, “I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

                ‘Oh…’ John felt like such a clot, ‘I’m moving too fast’. He’d just been so excited he couldn’t control himself.

                “Here,” he said and unwound Sherlock’s fingers before placing them on his own face. “We’ll go slower.”

                John raised his own hands to cup Sherlock’s face, stroking a thumb softly over his cheekbone and seeing the panic begin to leave his eyes. Sherlock’s fingers began to trail over John’s face as they had that night when everything had started to change. They watched each other, eyes flickering over every feature until Sherlock began to lean in. John moved forward to meet him for a kiss but Sherlock’s lips landed softly at the top of his forehead.

                John held his breath as Sherlock’s mouth trailed down his face, following the slope of his nose, his top lip catching briefly on the tip. John shivered and snaked his fingers back into Sherlock’s hair. Hot breath ghosted across John’s lips and he parted them instinctively, his heart pounding fast and sending blood tingling everywhere. Jesus, Sherlock was barely touching him. Sherlock’s hands slid back to frame John’s head before tugging him a little closer and darting a curious tongue out to trace John’s lips.

                The air shuddered out of John’s lungs with a growl and he quickly captured the intruder, eliciting a muffled groan from Sherlock. They kissed and this time there was an equal give and take, Sherlock pressing down into him and John arching up until they were rocking. John was aching by now and to his absolute rapture, felt an answering hardness grinding into his own. Quite forgetting himself, John’s hands found their way to the swell of Sherlock’s arse, gripping and hauling the other man hard against him. Sherlock wholeheartedly didn’t mind if the adamant rolling of his hips was anything to go by.

                Sherlock was breathing so hard now that he had to break the kiss, burying his face in John’s neck as he rocked furiously against him. Even though stars were bursting behind John’s eyes, he fixed his grip on the other man and gasped at him to stop. Sherlock did so abruptly, going absolutely silent as if chastised.

                “No, no,” John corrected, rubbing a soothing hand on Sherlock’s back, “It’s fine, it’s bloody fantastic actually but this being the first time I…I want to make love to you properly. Naked. On a bed.”

                He heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath and he pulled away from his hiding place in John’s shoulder. He eyed him with blown pupils, an endless array of emotions passing over his features in an instant. “I…um…” he for once seemed speechless, “…thank you.”

                John was taken aback. He pulled Sherlock into his arms in a second, pressing a firm kiss to his cheek. “Don’t ever thank me for loving you, Sherlock,” he whispered fiercely. “Now, I want you to get up, and go to your room. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be there in a minute.”

                Sherlock rose without a word and did as he was told. John, after taking a steadying breath, made his way upstairs to his room, which he hadn’t occupied since he started sharing a bed with Sherlock. After rummaging through his nightstand for a moment, he retrieved the lubricant he was looking for and hurried back down the stairs.

                He nudged open the crack in Sherlock’s door and found the man perched on his bed, now wearing his blue dressing gown and, from what John could tell, not much else. John knew this magnificent sight would be forever emblazoned in his memory, as would be the uncharacteristically shy smile Sherlock greeted him with. John quickly removed his jumper and shirt before descending upon the bed and kissing Sherlock greedily, sliding a hand up to touch the delicate skin of his freshly exposed collarbone.

                Sherlock’s hands roamed over John’s skin, curiously tracing the outline of his scar and causing him to shiver. On an impulse, he grabbed Sherlock by the hips and slid him further up the bed, settling himself between his legs before attacking his mouth once again. Sherlock’s startled gasp was quickly swallowed up and replaced by a low groan deep in his chest, his arms tightening around John’s neck.

                “This okay?” John’s voice had taken on a husky tone that made Sherlock’s insides do something funny. Words having momentarily fled from him, Sherlock could only nod and arch upwards into John’s body. They both moaned.

                John’s hands found their way to Sherlock’s dressing gown and pushed it open so it fell down over his shoulders, exposing pale, sparsely freckled skin. With a soft sound of awe, his mouth fell to the curve between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, placing open kisses along it and down over a sharp collarbone.

                “John…” Sherlock breathed, a hand snaking into short blond hair and tugging gently.

                “Sherlock,” came John’s soft reply, spoken against Sherlock’s chest as his mouth meandered downwards.

                Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head as the smaller man paid tribute to his chest. And then a hot mouth closed over his left nipple and a zing of pleasure shot through Sherlock so fast that he nearly unseated John with the force of his bucking hips. He expected John to laugh at him but he seemed to be even more driven, lavishing the same attention on the right nipple while rolling the neglected one between his thumb and forefinger.

                Sherlock’s head fell back, his mouth slack and his eyes closed. His breaths came fast and his hand tightened in John’s hair. He’d never known anything like this before. No one had ever been concerned with whether he enjoyed himself and John seemed very determined to ensure just that. It reminded him yet again how profoundly lucky he was to find someone like John who loved him back.

                “Am I moving too fast?” John’s voice jolted Sherlock out of his thoughts.

                “No,” his voice was barely audible so he shook his head a little to make himself clear.

                “How would you like it?” John asked, placing tender kisses to Sherlock’s stomach, “My hands…my mouth…?”

                Something searing, sharp, and lovely stabbed Sherlock right through the middle at John’s offer. God, anything, really but if Sherlock could have his pick… if what he actually wanted was even an option…

                “You,” Sherlock replied, sitting up on his elbows to make eye contact with John who had stopped nuzzling his stomach to look at him.

                A look of bemusement passed over John’s face, “But you _do_ have me, Sherlock. I’m here, aren’t I? I know, I’m having trouble believing it myself…”

                Sherlock cut his sentence short with a very pointed yet hesitant hand on John’s belt buckle. All signs of levity left John’s expression as he looked Sherlock in the face. Sherlock felt himself flushing even more than he already was but held his gaze. “Sherlock…” his name hung in the air for several seconds until Sherlock started to doubt.

                “I mean, it’s okay. If you’re not…if you don’t like that,” he finished lamely, clearing his throat.

                John felt his jaw drop a little. God give him strength because Sherlock was going to literally kill him one of these days. How, HOW could he not possibly want it? Want _him_?  It’s not like he’s had guilty daydreams about it…and night dreams come to think… not like he yearns to be as close to Sherlock as physically possible every waking moment (that he isn’t being a prick and sometimes even then). What John would really like to have done was jump on Sherlock and take exactly what he wanted as fast or slow or hard as he wanted. But John had to stop behaving like a randy teenager because he was an adult, damn it and he had to be the responsible one in this situation.

                “Sherlock...” he tried again, his voice a little stronger this time, “If you know you’re ready, then I would be…ecstatic to have the honor. And I swear, I won’t hurt you and if you’re ever uncomfortable, you can just say it and I’ll- mmf!”

                Sherlock’s lips had rather effectively silenced the doctor and he used John’s surprise to turn the tables and crawl on top of him. John’s hands found his waist, stroking his skin through the thin fabric, quickly falling from his body in silken waves. Sherlock’s tongue opened John’s mouth as his fingers opened his jeans, sliding a hand between denim and cotton to cup John through his pants. John’s body jerked and he gasped into Sherlock’s mouth before he caught the knot of his dressing gown belt and tugged it loose.

                Sherlock shivered as the cool air of the room touched his rather prominent erection and quickly sought warmth against the soft skin of John’s stomach. They moaned in unison, John’s hands seemingly connected to Sherlock’s skin by magnets, sliding over and over waist and hips and a glorious bum but never leaving. In the millisecond that their lips parted to draw breath, John muttered, “Lift up,” and Sherlock did, allowing John room to push his trousers the rest of the way down and kick them off his ankles.

                The detective resettled himself quite firmly, rocking experimentally against John’s cotton clad arousal. They took a collective breath before John’s mouth found Sherlock’s again and a hand snagged itself in his curls. The other hand trailed down his slender chest, fingertip dipping momentarily into his bellybutton, sliding down, expecting to encounter hair when…  

                “Sherlock… you _shaved_?”

                “Yes, well,” Sherlock started, flustered, “I wasn’t able to deduce exactly what your preferences are but judging by your history of women, I thought perhaps you liked smooth skin so I…”

                “Idiot,” John said fondly, pressing a hard kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s jaw, “I like _you_. I _love_ you.”

                Sherlock’s breath stuttered in his chest as he looked at him, “John.” He said so softly and that was just the same as ‘I love you’ to John.

                “I know,” he replied.

                With an odd high kind of sound, Sherlock slid down John’s body, leaving a trail of kisses from his chest downwards until he had arrived at the waistband of his pants. He flicked his eyes up for a moment to see John watching him, spellbound, his lips slightly parted and his pupils blown wide. Sherlock groaned low in his chest and pressed an open mouth to the hard line of John’s cock and breathed. Everything in John’s body jolted and he arched upward with a gasp as warm, damp air caressed him. The hand in Sherlock’s hair twisted more sharply as he drew a hot tongue along John’s still clothed length, pausing to lavish more affection upon the head, steadily creating a wet patch on the fabric.

                “Sh-Sherlock…” John started breathlessly, “If you keep that up, this isn’t going to last very long.”

                Sherlock reluctantly drew back his tongue and hooked his fingers under the waistband of John’s pants. He cast up a hesitant glance and John petted his hair softly in encouragement. With upmost care, Sherlock tugged them down to his knees, John helping him shuck them the rest of the way off before reaching out a beckoning hand. Sherlock complied and lied down next to John, who had turned over onto his side, the previously procured lubricant in hand.

                He tugged Sherlock closer to him, catching his lips in a reassuring kiss before applying a good amount of the lube to his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it before reaching down between them. Sherlock took the hint and lifted his leg, draping it over John’s hip to give him access. A nervous thrill shot through the pit of his stomach as he felt John’s slickened fingers tracing along his perineum.

                “Relax,” John said softly, reaching down his other hand to wrap loosely around Sherlock’s cock. A soft, breathy sound left Sherlock and his eyes flickered shut a fraction, one hand gripping firmly to John’s good shoulder.

                With upmost care, John circled his entrance once before gently easing in his index fingertip. Sherlock gasped and tensed in his arms. John muttered comforting sounds, applying a firmer stroke to Sherlock’s erection. After a moment, Sherlock’s muscles began to release and John was able to make it up to the knuckle and Christ, he was hot. He shuddered at the mere anticipation of how amazing he would feel around him. With a stuttering exhale and a tender kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, he began to move the finger buried inside him.

                A delightful jolt trembled out through Sherlock’s body and he moaned in startled pleasure. The second finger to breach him came with a bit more pain but it soon spread out into a sweet ache as John pumped the two digits inside of him. John moved them in a scissoring motion and Sherlock groaned louder, pushing himself down into the sensation.

                “Slow down,” John admonished but he was already breathless at the sight, the feeling of this.

                When the third finger made its appearance, Sherlock was just about done playing games, which was quite a feat for a tease like him. He started to move himself in time to the thrusts of John’s fingers, following their outward stroke to keep them from leaving entirely. “Now, John,” Sherlock nearly growled, his cheeks flushed gloriously and his cock desperately hard in John’s hand.

                John had to physically concentrate not to come. With one last tease of his fingers around Sherlock’s rim, which awarded him a high pitched whine, he finally withdrew his fingers and hoisted Sherlock’s leg higher up his waist. Then, an idea dawning on him, gripped that leg more tightly and, with an arm around Sherlock, turned onto his back and pulled the other man on top of him. Sherlock made a startled noise, his hands scrabbling for purchase on John’s chest before pushing himself up to look down at John.

                “I want you to ride me,” John said, in answer to Sherlock’s questioning gaze, “That way, you’ll be the one in control.”

                Sherlock looked genuinely panicked, “B- Wh- What if I can’t do it right?”

                John couldn’t help a fond smile. Sherlock was so rarely this uncertain. “Love, it’s pretty basic. There’s really no wrong way to do it,” John replied, stroking his hands over Sherlock’s hips reassuringly, sliding over long thighs.

                The blackness of Sherlock’s pupils had all but swallowed up the pale iris and his expression was devoid of all mirth and sarcasm. He was vulnerable and real and _John’s_. Sherlock let out an unsteady breath and reached for the discarded lubricant, stroking John’s length, once, twice…flicking his thumb teasingly- “Sherlock.”

                He caught John’s eyes, positioned himself, and slowly sank down. Both men held their breath until Sherlock, several moments later, sat flush against John’s hips. Stuttering, awed sounds filled the air and Sherlock opened his eyes to look down at John, who was staring at him so reverently that he felt like something precious. Breathing hard, Sherlock took John’s left hand off his waist and laced the fingers with his own. They shared a loaded gaze before Sherlock bit his lip and lifted himself carefully.

                The slow, sweet drag of skin on skin drew a collective moan from the two of them, John’s hand sliding up to caress Sherlock’s spine soothingly. “You’re amazing, love,” he whispered, garnering a breathy gasp of his name in response. Sherlock began to find a rhythm, rising and falling with growing ease and John rolled his hips to match. The fingers holding John’s tightened and Sherlock braced himself on John’s knee with his other hand, using the leverage to quicken his pace.

                John could hardly believe this, looking up into Sherlock’s blush stained face, his mouth slack and eyes shut tight as he moved above him. He was gorgeous, warmer and sweeter than he had ever imagined and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking ‘ _Mine. Mine because he wants to be mine.’_ Then much of his coherent thought abandoned him because Sherlock had begun to sort of moan-sigh with every downward stroke and that had to be more than the human body was meant to endure.

                Feeling the telltale heat beginning to coil inside him, John’s hand wrapped itself round Sherlock’s cock and began to pump. Sherlock unleashed a sound heretofore unheard by human ears and dropped his trembling left arm to the bed beside John, lowering his upper half so that they were close enough to kiss. Open mouths caressed each other between chanting of names, movements frenzied, blood rushing so as to block out every other sound. And suddenly Sherlock’s body went tense, his shout of pleasure broken in the middle like a sob as he came between them. The sight, the feeling, and the tightness of Sherlock’s body around him were enough to bring John to the top and he jerked sharply before spending himself deep within his lover.

                Sherlock’s arms had given out and he lay plastered to John’s chest, panting heavily as shudders continued to wrack his body. John wrapped his arms tight around him as they came down together, gently petting sweat drenched curls. Time hung still in the air until Sherlock finally asked with a hoarse voice, “Was that…good. For you?”

                John let out a breathless chuckle and pressed a firm kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “It was fucking fantastic, Sherlock. My God.”

                “Now you don’t have to call me that,” Sherlock said with a smile in his voice, “Though the sentiment is much appreciated.”

                John laughed and swatted him lazily. Sherlock rolled off of him and they lay side by side in delirious happiness until sleepiness started to descend over them. His arms feeling like lead, John grabbed a sheet off the floor and wiped them both clean before pulling Sherlock into his arms and the covers over them both.

                Sherlock snuggled up against him, sighing sleepily, “I hope we can repeat this experience soon. There are some experiments I would like to run…” his voice trailed off into a yawn.

                John smiled into his hair, “Soon, Sherlock. But for now, get some sleep. We’ve got the big court date in the morning.”

                Sherlock hummed in agreement and the pair of them drifted off to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone that has stuck this story through to the end and all the new followers it has picked up along the way!


End file.
